


Kings, Knights, Pawns

by jovialJuggernaut



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: ADHD Edward Nygma, Autistic Bruce Wayne, Death Chess as Courtship, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:07:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29437269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jovialJuggernaut/pseuds/jovialJuggernaut
Summary: riddle man gets to smooch the batman but its a slowburn so thatll be *checks watch* in a whileupdated summary when i can think of a good one
Relationships: Edward Nygma/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 41
Kudos: 26





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> alright so basically this is just me setting me up a timeline and dumping all my headcanons in one place   
> if yall have any qs abt the worldstate u can find me on tumblr @ jovialjuggernaut-draws.tumblr.com

_ Kingside knight to f3. _

The glass piece tapped against the marble board with a satisfying  _ tink.  _

"Bruce? Bruce, are you ready? We need to get going!" 

Martha's voice went unheeded, the boy in question fully absorbed in his task. 

_ Black replies with kingside knight to f6.  _

His arms didn't quite reach neatly across the sprawling board, intended as it was for adult players, and he had to hover out of his seat to move the piece. 

"Oh, Bruce, there you are! Your shoes aren't even on! Ugh, what's Alfred even doing… come on, enough of that! We're going to be late!"

_ White pawn to c4.  _

"No, no, stop playing. Mr. Flacone's not the kind of man you keep waiting." 

Bruce's hands were taken, lifted from the board before he could move the black pawn in reply. He struggled in her grip, and found it loose. His focus was already broken, anyway. 

"Come on, Bruce. Shoes on."

"...They're uncomfortable." He protested. 

"I know, sweetheart, but they're the ones that match your suit, remember?" 

He frowned. 

"No pouting! Tonight's party is for you, Bruce. Look excited!" She squatted down, balancing easily on her stiletto heels, to look at him at eye-level. She put on a smile, fake with sweetness, urging him to copy the expression. 

He pulled the corners of his mouth up methodically.

"There we go, that's better. You remember what I told you? About the party tonight?" 

He recalled. "Be good, do what I'm told-"

"And no meltdowns." She finished for him. 

_ Meltdowns.  _ He hated when she called them that. Worse, he hated the way she acted like he was  _ purposefully  _ making life harder on her. He always gave plenty of warning, he thought. He told them when he wanted to go home, he told them when he didn't want to do something, and when they made him continue on anyway, ignoring his pleas, they called it  _ his  _ fault when he got overwhelmed. 

"Yes, ma'am." He replied, instead. 

"Good." She stood up again, sighing with relief. "Shoes on, and don't make me ask again. We need to be in the car in five minutes, okay?" 

Her heels marked the time as she walked briskly away, gathering up her handbag from the mantle as she went. Bruce knelt, pulling on the pinchy shoes, the wrong shape in the toe and too stiff. Already, he knew it would be a terrible night. 

_ Black pawn to g6.  _

Reciting the game mentally wouldn't be good practice. He wouldn't know if he messed up. Some people could recall the whole board perfectly in their heads, he knew, but that wasn't a skill he'd perfected just yet. Still, he'd been trying to memorize this game for days now, and he was reluctant to let something as pointless as one of his parents' parties get in the way of his progress. 

_ White knight to c3.  _

He made his way out through the grandiose foyer, passing his mother primping her hair one last time in the ornate mirror that overlooked the hall. She hastily picked up her handbag, tapping her way quickly across the marble flooring to catch up with Bruce, despite his head start. 

_ Black bishop to g7.  _

Out the front door, Alfred waited patiently beside the limousine, the door open and waiting for the vehicle's usual occupants. Bruce climbed in awkwardly, the step up still a little too high for him, despite how much he'd grown recently, and sat beside his father, already waiting inside and deeply embroiled in a heated conversation on his cell phone. 

"No, I will not be available later this evening, either. I warned you  _ months  _ ago that I would be- Yes, I understand that, but I can't just- No, he will have to reschedule. He can't just  _ drop in  _ whenever he- Of course I don't want you to tell him that! Come up with some way to make it sound good,  _ lie  _ if you have to- Listen, I don't have time for this. This is your job. If you're too incompetent- Excellent. That's what I want to hear. Good night, Lisa." The phone was snapped shut with an emphatic  _ clack _ . "Honestly, some people... you'd think a woman I  _ pay  _ to keep track of my schedule would be able to do just that, wouldn't you?" 

_ White pawn to d4. _

The door closed behind Martha as she sat on Bruce's other side, Alfred's shadow passing along the windows as he made his way around to the driver's seat. 

"I keep telling you, Thomas, you need to hire a new secretary. This one is  _ such  _ a ditz!" Martha complained. 

Thomas sighed. "Yes, well, the last  _ competent  _ secretary I hired was too nosy, poking around where she didn't belong. Lisa is able to keep her nose out of sensitive business. That's the trade-off, I suppose." 

Martha hummed instead of answering. 

_ Black castles kingside.  _

The limousine rumbled its way across the countryside, taking the lovely, scenic boulevard along the harbor's edge. Bruce's parents kept up a genial conversation over his head, occasionally bringing Alfred in on the discussion, while Bruce watched out the window, taking in the Gotham skyline across the glittering waters. 

_ White bishop to f4.  _

He was perfectly familiar with the sight, of course. He'd studied the history of the city extensively, memorizing every fact he could about the most interesting buildings there. Before Alfred had begun teaching him chess, intending to draw him away from his obsession with the city and towards a more  _ interactive  _ hobby, he'd begun to memorize the coordinates of many of the buildings, mapping out the city in as detailed a manner as he could manage. Perhaps he'd return to that venture one day, get to know Gotham in a way no one else ever had before. 

_ Pawn to d5.  _

The car passed onto one of the bridges, gliding smoothly across the pavement, the streetlamps beginning to flicker on overhead. They were a bit early, the sun not quite to setting just yet. They must be on timers, instead of sensors, Bruce noted. 

_ White queen to b3.  _

They didn't go far into the city before reaching their destination. Alfred pulled the limousine to a stop at the steps to the hotel, allowing them out of the car before handing off the keys to the valet. Bruce stomped with his pinchy shoes, trying to force them to adjust to his feet. 

"Bruce, quit it!" Martha hissed, grabbing her son by the forearm roughly. "Be good, remember?" 

"Yes, ma'am." The shoes were still uncomfortable. He dragged his feet as his mother dragged him towards the door, trying to be more subtle about it, but there was no fixing them. 

_ Pawn takes pawn.  _

The hotel doors opened as they arrived at them, held by attendants, and they were waved toward the glass elevator on the far side of the sprawling lobby. Bruce's head swiveled left and right as he took in the environment, from the lush gardens to the burbling fountains, unruly little snippets of nature fenced neatly into the otherwise pristine hall. 

His mother's grip reminded him to keep up. 

_ Queen takes pawn.  _

The elevator was quick, traveling from the ground floor to the penthouse in what felt like an instant. The view from the top allowed Bruce an even better angle on that lobby, but he was given no time to appreciate it, being turned immediately and pushed out of the elevator. 

"We're here!" Martha announced, with false enthusiasm. "Remember to look excited, Bruce! There are so many people that want to meet you!" 

It wasn't a very exciting prospect, but Bruce knew how to fake expressions well enough to please his mother. He returned her smile, with the same false pleasantness, and allowed her to show him inside. 

_ Black pawn to c6.  _

The party was in full swing inside. Glasses of champagne were being passed around like candy on Halloween, waiters bumped around between groups of people with rapidly diminishing trays of hors d'oeuvres, and lively conversations echoed from every corner, each competing with the others to be the most enthusiastic in the room.

Bruce was already overwhelmed. 

_ White pawn to e4. _

Unlike most of the parties his parents attended, where he recognized almost every person there, the same crowds attending the same parties all the time, Bruce only recognized a handful of the people here. The Elliots were here, of course, though he didn't see Tommy around, as well as Veronica's uncle, Emmanuel Vreeland. Many of those strangers greeted his parents with casual familiarity as the family made their way past the crowd and into a quieter hallway off to the side. 

"Eccolo! The man of the hour!" A man around his father's age greeted them, offering a hand for Bruce to shake. He did so, hesitantly, and the man clasped both hands around his, shaking firmly. 

"Carmine, it's good to see you. This is Bruce. Bruce, Carmine Falcone." Thomas introduced, patting his son's back encouragingly. 

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Falcone." Bruce greeted. 

"Is your father in, Carmine? I'd love to have the boy meet him." 

The man released Bruce's hand, clapping Thomas on the shoulder and gesturing to the door he'd been standing in front of. "Of course, of course. Just through here."

_ Queenside knight to d7. _

The door was opened, and Bruce ushered through. He knew his mother followed him in, by the gentle pressure of her manicured hands on his shoulders, and that his father was close behind, by the sound of him making small talk with Carmine before closing the door, but Bruce was frozen still, intimidated by the man in front of him. 

There was something frightening about him. He sat comfortably in a high-backed armchair, stretched out lazily, smoking a cigar and half-leaning on the desk before him, chatting jovially with a serious-faced girl only a bit older than Bruce himself, but it wasn't his appearance that made him nervous. No, it was something he couldn't quite put his finger on, an aura, perhaps, though he wasn't prone to believing in that sort of thing. 

The man tapped out some ash from the tip of his cigar and gestured with his fingers to indicate his attention was now firmly on his new guests. 

Thomas spoke first. "Don Falcone, I'd like to introduce my son, Bruce Wayne. He's a bright kid, and we're very proud of him. Bruce, this is Don Falcone." 

Martha pushed Bruce forward gently, trying to be subtle about the motion, but he resisted instinctively, afraid to approach. The don held a hand out, cigar dangling between his fingers, waving Bruce over to him. 

"Vieni, vieni, come here. Let me get a good look at you." 

Bruce hesitantly stepped forward, approaching the don. The man took his hand in much the way his son had, clasping the one with both hands firmly. Bruce was uncomfortably aware of the burning end of the cigar so close to the tender skin of his hand. 

"A strong boy. He'll be a good man one day, I would bet good money. Here, Bruce, meet my granddaughter. Sofia?" 

The serious girl turned her sharp gaze over to him. Standing this close, it was clear she was easily a foot taller than him already, despite how young her face appeared. 

"She's entering sixth grade this year, you know. Two years older than you. Sofia, why don't you show Bruce around the party? I'm sure you two will get along well. I have some things to speak with his father about." 

_ Rook to d1. _

Sofia curtsied, delicately pinching the thick skirts of her purple dress, and strode over to the door, pausing before she left to check over her shoulder that Bruce was following. He checked with his mother, meeting her eyes. Martha nodded in Sofia's direction. 

Despite his misgivings, Bruce left his parents alone with Don Falcone, following the girl back into the loud sitting room. 

_ Knight to b6.  _

Sofia made no attempt to make conversation, which suited Bruce just fine, and took the first opportunity she could find to slip away, leaving Bruce in a sea of unfamiliar faces. Through all of the people, he couldn't see Alfred, had no idea if the butler had even made it to the penthouse yet, and couldn't find the Elliots, either. 

_ Queen to c5.  _

The other guests began to notice the guest of honor had returned to the sitting room, without his parents to ward them off or usher him away, and they began to circle him, like so many ravenous sharks surfacing in the harbor at the first scent of blood. 

_ Bishop to g4.  _

He was pelted with questions from all sides, surrounded by curious partygoers who all seemed to be under the impression that he was significantly younger than he actually was, or who had no idea how to speak to children at all. 

He answered several queries about what subjects he was learning in school, faced disappointment when he revealed he wasn't involved in any team sports, because apparently martial arts classes did not count as sports, and decided on chess when asked about what he did for fun, which was apparently an unexpected answer. 

"A little Einstein, huh? Most kids your age spend all their time playing video games, you know!" 

He knew. He was well aware that his interests rarely aligned with those of his classmates, and even more aware that he had little control over what did and did not catch his interest. 

_ Bishop to g5. The fatal mistake.  _

"What makes you so interested in chess, Bruce?" 

Bruce had a bad habit. 

He was aware of this habit, but try as he might, he seemed to be unable to kick it. 

See, normally, he remembered his etiquette lessons, smiling and chatting and making small talk as he'd been trained, right up until someone asked about something he was  _ actually  _ interested in. 

Then, suddenly, he would be unable to close the floodgates. Like a river rushing out of a broken dam, an unending stream of facts and figures and details would flow forth, information only  _ he  _ found interesting, while he watched helplessly as the faces of those he was speaking to slowly dimmed, going from polite to annoyed in record time. 

_ Knight to a4. Queen to a3. Knight takes knight.  _

Chess had been Alfred's idea. It took two people to play, after all, so Bruce would  _ have  _ to interact with other people to fully enjoy it. Besides that, it was quiet and thought-intensive, the kind of environment Bruce always flourished in. There were as many different play styles as there were players, an ever-evolving, ever-adapting challenge, something for him to fully sink his teeth into. 

It had been the first time that someone had managed to get Bruce hooked on something on purpose. 

Now, though, it was less than helpful. None of these people cared much for chess, beyond that it was a game people who thought they were smart played, and they certainly didn't care for an impromptu lecture on the subject from a nine-year-old. They remained, listening politely, as he  _ was  _ the guest of honor, but it was clearly a strain, and Bruce felt guilty and panicky all at once. 

_ Pawn takes knight.  _

A hand closed around his arm, tugging him out of the circle of people. "Scusi! Grandpa sent me over here! You guys go back to having fun!" 

The crowd dispersed, allowing Bruce to finally get a good look at the boy who'd grabbed him. Roughly his own age, with a warm tan and thick eyebrows, the boy grinned at him as though they were already friends. 

"Come on, you wanna get away from these people?" 

It would be irresponsible. He was meant to stay here, to socialize with the other guests. The whole point of the party was for these people to get acquainted with him. 

He nodded. 

The boy led him away, down the quiet hallway, past the room where the terrifying don still lurked, Carmine Falcone now distracted by conversation with a woman whose coral dress scooped down practically to her bellybutton, past door after door, around a corner, and up a short, spiraling staircase, ending up in a cluttered little room full of shiny knick knacks, weapons, and books. 

The party was all but inaudible from here. 

"Whew! I was so scared my dad was gonna stop us! He hates it when we run off." The boy laughed. 

"Your dad?" Bruce scrambled to remember. Had he already been introduced to this kid?

"Yeah, we passed him on the way here. He was talking to- Oh! I didn't introduce myself!" Well, that answered that. "My name's Mario. Mario Falcone."

The boy held a hand out for a handshake. Bruce wondered if his hands would get chapped from shaking everyone's hands so much all night. He allowed the boy to take his hand, giving it a single, emphatic shake before letting go. 

"Um, nice to meet you, Mario. I'm Bruce." He stared down at his hands where they'd landed in his lap, pinching at his fingertips. "Um, does that mean your dad is Carmine Falcone?" 

Mario nodded. "Yep. And my nonno's the big boss." 

Bruce furrowed his brows, trying to remember all the people he'd met tonight. "So... Sofia's-"

"My big sister." Mario confirmed. He grinned. "You met her, huh? She acts all tough, but she's a big ol' Daddy's Girl. Don't let her scare you." 

Bruce nodded. "She's really tall." He noted. 

Mario found that funny, for some reason. He laughed himself practically to tears, doubling over over his knees, cackling madly. "Oh,  _ man.  _ She'd be so mad if she knew you said that!" He wheezed. 

Bruce felt himself flush. He hadn't meant to insult her. He'd just meant it as a casual observation, something to add to the conversation. At least Mario was taking it well. It wouldn't have been the first time he made someone he just met hate him. 

"Um, thanks for getting me out, back there." He said, instead of apologizing. 

"No problem." Mario giggled, still coming down from the intense bout of laughter. "These people, man! Always trying to cozy up to the biggest person in the room."

Bruce cocked his head, not quite understanding. "I'm not all that important, though." 

"Sure, not  _ yet,  _ but your parents are." Mario shrugged, nonchalant. "You get used to it, don't worry." 

"I don't think I  _ want  _ to get used to it..." Bruce grumbled, starting Mario's giggles up fresh. 

"Yeah, you looked like you were dying out there." A silence fell, Bruce not knowing what to say in reply, Mario getting his chuckling back under control, when the boy suddenly got a thoughtful look in his eyes. "Hey, you were saying you like chess, right?" 

Bruce nodded, keeping his mouth shut tight. He didn't want Mario to get annoyed with him, too. 

"Come on, there's a chess board somewhere in here. Just gotta find it. You could teach me how to play, yeah?" 

That... wasn't what Bruce was expecting him to say. Mario was standing, brushing imaginary dust off his pants, and Bruce was just staring, wide-eyed. 

"What, you don't want to?" Mario asked, tilting his head and looking almost put-out. 

Bruce sat up straighter. "No! No, I mean, yes! I'll teach you!" 

"Cool." Mario grinned, offering a hand down to Bruce to help him up. He took it, allowing the other boy to tug him to his feet. 

Bruce was led around the room by his hand as Mario investigated the corners, poking around in piles of expensive-looking junk, until he found what he was looking for with a triumphant 'whoop!'. 

"What are you doing?" A new voice asked, startling both boys. 

"Alberto! Shit!" Mario cursed, recognizing the voice. 

A younger boy, pale and small for his age, stepped around a stack of boxes. He stared, unblinking, at them both. His eyes flicked down for a moment at their joined hands, and Mario ripped his hand away as though Bruce had suddenly burned him. 

"Merda, Alberto, you scared the shit out of me! What are you doing in here?!" Mario hissed. 

"I asked first." Alberto pointed out. 

"Yeah, well-" Mario seemed flustered. "Well, I was here first! Go away!" 

"No, you weren't. I've been in here the whole time." Alberto argued. In distinct contrast to Mario's expressive face, Alberto hadn't twitched a single muscle the whole time, expression perfectly neutral. It was an interesting dichotomy, Bruce mused. 

"Ugh, fine!" Mario groaned. "Come on, Bruce, let's go somewhere else..." 

Bruce was tugged along after Mario (by the elbow, this time, not the hand) as the other boy stormed out of the cluttered room. 

"It was nice to meet you, Bruce Wayne." Alberto called out after them. 

Bruce turned to wave, pulled away before he could muster an appropriately polite reply. 

He picked up the pace, matching with Mario's quick steps, and Mario's hand dropped from his elbow. 

"Sorry about him. My little brother, Alberto." Mario grumbled. 

"He didn't seem that bad." 

Mario shot him a look, then heaved a sigh. "Yeah, I guess not. I'm just mad 'cause... 'Cause he's always in the way, I guess." 

"In the way? What's that mean?" 

Before Mario could answer, there was the quick tapping of heels rushing down the hall. "Bruce? Oh, Bruce, sweetie, there you are! We've been looking all over for you! Where have you been?" 

Martha swept towards them, the skirt of her gown billowing out with the motion, until she was near enough to tug Bruce into a stifling hug. 

"Sorry, Mrs. Wayne, ma'am. I was just showing him around." Mario apologized. 

Martha released Bruce from her tight hold, moving back enough to hold his face, looking him in the eye. "Not doing anything  _ dangerous _ , I hope?" 

"No, ma'am. Cross my heart." Mario answered for him. 

"Well, good, good." She let go of him, standing and pulling her dress back into place. She held a hand to Bruce's shoulder, guiding him along, back to the loud room and away from his new friend. "Come on, Bruce. They're missing you out there! Not even Alfred knew where you'd gone, you know. You really should let someone know where you're going!" 

"See ya, Bruce!" Mario called out after them. 

Bruce watched back over his shoulder, as long as his mother would let him, until Mario disappeared back down the hall. 

"I know you don't like parties much, Bruce, but sometimes we have to do things we don't like! It was really very rude of you to disappear like that!" 

"Yes, ma'am." 

She continued to lecture him until the noise of the party became too loud, and she had to act all nice and smiley for the guests again. Bruce tried his best to put on the act, as well, just like he'd been taught, but he'd lost his place in the game, lost track of all the pieces, and his mind felt scattered, like the mental board had fallen over and taken all his thoughts down with the pieces. 

They did not make it home without a meltdown that night. 

\---

" _...will open its doors by the end of the month, our sources say, thanks in large part to the Wayne Foundation's continued generous donations. The high-security wing will house several notable inmates being transferred over from Blackgate Penitentiary, though no names have been disclosed at this time. The low-security wing will be open to the public, however, and will be accepting overflow patients from the Elliot Memorial Hospital's psych ward. In a press briefing earlier today, Mayor Hill had this to say..."  _

The newscaster's voice continued on, barely audible over the din of conversation in the café, making Bruce grateful for the closed captions, slow and inaccurate as they were. It was all information he was already aware of, but hearing public opinion on his projects never hurt. The next sip he took of his coffee was unpleasantly cold. He'd been too absorbed in the report and forgotten about it again. He grimaced. 

"That bad, huh? Making me rethink ordering something for myself." The laughter following the comment was almost more familiar than the voice. Mario was grinning as he slid into the seat next to Bruce, graciously avoiding walking in front of the screen as he did so. 

"Ah, no, just cold. Well worth the price, if you really did want something." Bruce offered. 

Mario shook his head. "I was just joking around. I just wanted to swing by to thank you." 

"Thank me? For what?" He couldn't think of any particular favors he'd done the man, or his family, as of late. In fact, he'd recently broken up a gambling ring of his father's, though Mario would have no way of knowing it was Bruce under the mask that night. 

"For what you're doing for Alberto, with the asylum. It'll be good for him, better than rotting in that prison." 

Bruce sighed, swirling around his undrinkable coffee with the stirring stick. "It's not just for him. There's a disturbing lack of mental health care in this city, and this is just the first step in rectifying that." 

Mario shrugged, watching the news play. The clip from the mayor's press release was just ending, bringing the newscaster's face back on screen as she began to speculate optimistically on the outcome of the project as a transition into the next story. "Still. Just because you're also helping other people doesn't mean you're  _ not _ helping him, so..." His eyes were serious, intense with emotion, when he looked back at Bruce. " _ Thank  _ you. I mean it." 

Bruce didn't know how to respond. He never did. He broke eye contact and nodded, once, accepting the gratitude. 

Mario flashed him a quick smile, patting the table once as he stood, emphatically. "Well, I'd better go. No rest for the wicked and all that. Catch you around, yeah?" 

" _...will be introducing a new exhibit to be revealed this weekend, called 'Sands of Egypt', set to feature several genuine artifacts from the region..." _

"Of course. Take care of yourself, Mario." 

As abruptly as he'd arrived, the other man was gone again, leaving Bruce to his thoughts. There wasn't much time before he'd be needed upstairs again, expected to sit in on a pitch meeting from the biotech division of the R&D department.  _ No rest for the wicked, indeed... _

He'd hoped the news report might have featured a more concrete date for Arkham's reopening, intending to make room in his packed schedule for a visit to the facility, but, as expected, the press had no more information than he did. In all likelihood, he'd be among the first to know when a date  _ was  _ set. That they projected the opening so soon without a set date, though, was less than promising. Were there setbacks in the renovations? Was there an issue selecting suitable staff? Were they having trouble with preparations for the transfer of prisoners or patients? 

And, most importantly,  _ why  _ was Bruce not aware of the issue? 

With a heavy sigh, he abandoned his coffee, making his way to the elevators. As usual for this time of day, they were crowded, employees and visitors coming and going busily. It would be quieter if he were to take his coffee in his office, less chances of being bumped into or something spilled onto his suits, but half the comfort of the routine came from getting to mingle among the people for a brief moment every day. It was for these people, after all, that he worked so hard, day  _ and  _ night, making the city as safe and prosperous as he could manage alone. 

Besides, the consistency of his routine meant friends could always find him, when they really needed to. It was... nice, seeing Mario again, even for so brief a moment. The man had been frequently busy of late, taking a larger hand in his father's above-board business ventures. Bruce had to feel a little guilty for that, being the reason Carmine had had to stretch himself so thin in other areas, leaving his children to pick up the slack, especially with the youngest now behind bars. 

Not guilty enough to regret any of it, though. Despite having acted as a kindly uncle for Bruce for much of his childhood, Carmine Falcone deserved every moment of stress. He was a crook, utterly unrepentant about the lives he'd torn apart, about the people he'd manipulated, about dragging his children down the same path his own father had dragged him down in the first place. 

The elevator doors slid open, near-silent, followed by a brief tone to announce its arrival. Now was not the time for these thoughts. It was time to be Bruce Wayne, Chief Executive of Wayne Enterprises, discerning businessman yet kindly boss. Compartmentalization was key, with this double life of his. 

The Batman would have his time later. 


	2. Chapter 2

"Are you sure you can't show me around more of the facility?" Bruce eyed the door at the end of the hallway meaningfully, the one that would take him out of the visitor's area and into the complex proper. As expected, everything he was allowed to see was gorgeous, cutting-edge, and up to code, but this was the part of the facility intended for outsiders. It gave him no indication of what conditions were like for those who actually lived and received treatment here. 

"I'm really sorry, Mr. Wayne, but I can't make _any_ exceptions." Dr. Quinzel emphasized. She'd been very pleasant company, all in all, but was rigid in her application of policy. Likely, it was why she'd been the one chosen to take him on this tour, besides the obvious fact that she was young and blonde and he had a reputation they were attempting to exploit. 

"That's too bad, but I suppose I can't complain about the precaution. It's the sort of thing I was hoping to see, after all." He smiled kindly at her, taking care to have the expression reach his eyes. 

"Right." She agreed, returning the smile politely. She checked something on the clipboard she'd been carrying around with her, notes of some sort. They were carefully kept, in neat handwriting, color-coded with gel pens. There was a small doodle of a smiling daisy in one corner. "You also wanted to speak with some of the inmates, correct?"

"If I could. That's allowed, isn't it?" It was visiting hours, currently. The visiting room in the low-security wing was bustling with activity, friends and family of the patients all eager to see them in their new residence. The room on this side, however, was empty, silent, save for the one security guard keeping watch at the door. 

Dr. Quinzel nodded. "Sure thing! Was there someone in particular you wanted to see?" 

For a moment, he considered asking for Alberto. He'd get a chance to check up on him, see that he'd been treated well both during his transfer as well as his stay here, have something to tell Mario the next time they had a moment to speak, but he couldn't do it. The whole thing was still a bit raw, after all. Many of the people the Holiday Killer had targeted, Bruce had known personally. Discovering the true identity of the man behind the murders had come as a particularly painful shock. He and Alberto hadn't been particularly close, but he'd _thought_ they'd understood each other. 

And then, he'd had to be the one to bring him in. 

"No one in particular, no. Do you have any suggestions? I'm certain you'd have some insight as to who might be the most cooperative." 

She tapped the capped tip of her pen against her list, cocking her head contemplatively. "Well... I really shouldn't let you see anyone without a name, patient confidentiality and all that, but... I know several names were leaked during transfers, so... Oh, what the heck. I know just the guy." 

So, she _was_ willing to bend the rules, after all. Interesting. Was it that she was reluctant for him to see something further in, or was she just more willing to push the envelope, as it were, when she could find justification for it? 

"I'm gonna have you take a seat in the lobby for me while you wait. I'll have him right out." 

"Of course. Thanks again for humoring me." Bruce obediently took the seat she indicated for him, watching as she strode out, taking longer strides than expected for her pencil skirt, heels tapping loudly on the tiled flooring. 

He wondered who, in particular, she could be fetching. As she'd stated, the identities of several inmates had gotten out during transfers, mostly from loose-lipped Blackgate guards. Those names were all high-profile acts, several brought in by the Batman originally. Would it be Bane, who had been sent here for rehabilitation? That Joker character, who had made such a splash from the first time he'd emerged? Or someone else, someone Bruce _didn't_ know about, someone who had managed to be transferred quietly? 

His musing was cut short by the return of Dr. Quinzel's noisy heels, sending a staccato rhythm across the floors. Her voice was animated, even muffled by the doors, and whoever she was talking to was equally engaged in the conversation. Good, the doctors were on friendly terms with their patients, then. That was a good sign. 

"I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long, Mr. Wayne." 

It wasn't Dr. Quinzel's voice that greeted him, but the patient she'd brought along. Prideful, showy, arrogant... Despite the asylum uniform he was wearing, it was difficult not to immediately recognize the Riddler. He strode forward with purpose, holding out a hand in greeting, seeming off-balance without his signature cane. Bruce stood, deliberately shaking off the instinct to stay on guard, forcing himself back into his role as a relaxed socialite, and accepted the handshake. 

"Mr. Nygma, isn't it?" He greeted. The nametag read 'Edward N.', but the man had garnered more than enough media attention for Bruce Wayne, absent-minded billionaire playboy, to believably recall the name. 

"It is, indeed! My reputation precedes me, as ever." The Riddler's green eyes tracked the motion as his hand was released, before flicking back up to meet Bruce's once more. "You have quite the firm grip there, Mr. Wayne. Riddle me this: I have billions of eyes, yet I live in darkness. I have millions of ears, yet only four lobes. I have no muscle, yet I rule two hemispheres. What am I?" 

"The human brain." Bruce answered easily, almost unthinking. It was one he'd been asked before, after all. He was already dreading the ensuing conversation. Why would Dr. Quinzel think _this_ would be her most cooperative patient? 

"Very good! It would seem you have one, then, despite what the tabloids have to say. Care to take a seat, Mr. Wayne?" As though this were the parlor of his own home, the Riddler gestured for Bruce to take a seat graciously, only taking his own once he had. "Now, what was it you wanted to see me about?" 

Bruce could almost hear his mother's voice in his ears, murmuring reminders to 'Be polite!'. "Well, Mr. Nygma, this asylum has been a bit of a... pet project of mine. I feel it's an important cause, and, to that end, I have diverted considerable funds towards the renovations and running of the facility. Naturally, I want to make certain that money is being put to use effectively." 

"Naturally." The Riddler agreed.

"To that end, Dr. Quinzel has already given me a look around the place and made some suggestions from the perspective of the staff as to what they're still lacking, but I felt I would be remiss were I to leave without a patient's perspective. Who would be better informed about the quality of care than those receiving it, after all?" 

"And, so, you asked after me?" A smug grin began to spread across the man's face again. 

"Actually, it was Dr. Quinzel who recommended you. I had no one in particular in mind." Bruce felt a touch of vindictive glee, watching the grin fall again. The Riddler's ego was all too easy to bruise. 

"The eight of us go forth, not back, to protect our king from an attack. What are we?" 

"Pawns." Again, the answer was out of his mouth before he even realized he was speaking. This wasn't one the Riddler had used against the Batman before, but it _was_ one Bruce was familiar with, through his interest in the game. Chess aficionados were often interested in other types of logic puzzles, after all, so he was no stranger to chess-based riddles. 

"Correct again, Mr. Wayne. It seems you certainly know how to push around pawns of your own, anyway. Tell me, do you play? Chess, I mean." 

Bruce felt uncomfortably as though he were being appraised, like some artefact at an auction, poked and prodded down to the last detail, by an enthusiastically interested buyer. He especially didn't like where that put the Riddler in this metaphor. "I've been known to partake, time to time." 

It seemed the earlier blow to his ego didn't last long, as a new smile was making its way onto his face already. "You're full of surprises, aren't you? Nothing like you seem in your official appearances."

"I'm sorry to disappoint." Bruce said evenly, keeping his tone measured. 

The grin was back in full now. "Oh, no, quite the opposite. This is a _pleasant_ surprise." 

Bruce would have felt insulted, had the usual Bruce Wayne persona not been carefully constructed to give that sort of impression in the first place. He was a bit insulted, regardless, by something in the man's tone. "Then, are you willing to help me out?" 

"I can be lent, but not borrowed. I can hold and be held. Closed, I deal damage, but open, I help. What am I?" 

That was a new one. "A hand? The one you're going to lend me, I hope." 

"Indeed! Three for three, Mr. Wayne. I have to admit I'm impressed!" The Riddler leaned across the table, gesturing with an open palm. "Go ahead, ask me your questions. What is it you wanted to know?" 

Bruce sat straighter in his chair, earning himself a few extra inches of room. He'd noticed earlier that the security in here was light; he was especially cognizant of it now, sharing a table with a criminal who's latest convoluted scheme put a solid dozen people in the hospital. Sure, Bruce could handle himself, but ideally, he wouldn't have to. 

"Anything you can tell me, Mr. Nygma. Is the food decent quality, are the rooms comfortable, do you like your therapy team... any complaints you have, and I'll try my best to get them sorted out." 

The Riddler snorted, sliding back and slumping in his seat. "Right." With a roll of his eyes, he glanced off to where Dr. Quinzel still waited, busily typing things into a tablet computer while they talked. "It's a prison. The food is just quality enough to keep us going, not too many people have been poisoned yet, the beds are stiff and so are the blankets, and almost every member of the staff is fresh out of college: bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and with laughably little experience under their belts. All in all, I'd give it four out of five stars. See, I get a terrible view from my cell window." 

"I... see." The expected biting sarcasm aside, there weren't many helpful details there. Bruce considered how to reword his request, to prompt more elaboration, but the Riddler began again before he managed a single word. 

"Always watching, even when I'm not. In my fortress I remain, night and day, where I can see everything, but I cannot be seen." The riddle was delivered almost absent-mindedly. 

Bruce considered it, weighing the words in his mind. 

The Riddler supplied the answer himself. "The guard in the panopticon. It's where they've put all the prisoners. That's their 'high-security wing'. It's a panopticon." His eyes returned to meet Bruce's, sharp and serious. "Do you know what that kind of surveillance does to someone's mental health, Mr. Wayne?" 

He was... familiar with the concept. Cells arranged in a ring, with a single guard tower in the center, where all of the inmates could be easily observed. Further, the inmates would never know whether or not they were _being_ observed at any one point in time, thanks to the design of the guard's tower. "You said it yourself, didn't you? This is a prison." 

"Even prisoners require a bit of _privacy._ Those cells are more like exhibits, glass walls and identification plaques and all. It's a _zoo,_ a _freak show,_ all of us on display for the amusement of some unseen guard!" The words were spat with ever more vitriol, the Riddler working himself up into a rage. The security guard in the corner tensed, hand hovering over his taser. Dr. Quinzel paused in her typing, hands paused above the tablet screen, not moving a muscle for fear of drawing attention to herself. "You wanted to know what kind of fucking _problems_ we're having here? Why don't you start _there?!_ " 

Speech apparently concluded, the Riddler caught his breath, glancing over at the guard, grip fully on the taser now, and slowly lowered himself back into his chair, having risen to his feet by the end of the outburst. 

"Thank you, Mr. Nygma. You've given me a lot to think about. I'll see what I can do to improve conditions around here." 

Hearing the obvious dismissal, Dr. Quinzel crossed the room, placing a tentative hand on the Riddler's shoulder. "Ready, Eddie?" 

Bruce kept a close eye on them both as she led her patient out of the room, the latter looking small and meek suddenly as he went. Dr. Quinzel took care to quiet her steps, to close the door softly, and neither spoke another word while Bruce was still within earshot. It was eerie, even, so soon after that tense moment. The security guard took a long time to drop his hand from the taser, waiting a good minute after the door clicked shut to release it. 

When she returned, though, Dr. Quinzel was just as businesslike and chipper as she'd been before, sweeping into the room and meeting back up with her visitor. "So, Mr. Wayne, did you get what you needed from him, or should I set up another interview? I can think of a couple more candidates, if need be..." She consulted her list, fresh notes jotted in at the bottom, the blue gel still a bit shiny. 

"That won't be necessary, Dr. Quinzel. I think I've seen what I need to today, thank you." 

"Then let me show you the way out. I know it's a crazy maze in here." She offered, tucking her clipboard beneath her arm and gesturing towards the doors. 

"That'd be a big help, thanks. Just... one more question, if you don't mind." 

"Oh? Sure, hit me." She glanced over her shoulder at him, leading the way out as they talked. Even with the good foot of height he had on the petite woman, it wasn't easy to keep up. 

"It's about Mr. Nygma... why was he sent here? Sure, the whole thing where he sends riddles to the police seems a bit kooky, but..." 

"You know I can't discuss patient diagnoses with anyone they haven't approved." She chided. 

"Well, sure, but-"

"But nothing." She pursed her lips, her red lipstick causing them to stick together a bit as she did so. "If you _must_ know, he's been on the transfer list since we started discussing it. Now, obviously, the Joker was the big push we needed to get public interest going, but there were a few inmates that were obvious choices right away. I didn't work at Blackgate all that long, but we evaluated every single prisoner that came through. Some of them... raised more red flags than others. Eddie... Listen, we didn't even need to get to the eval for me to put him on the transfer list." 

"How so?" He pressed. Maybe it was just in comparison to Gotham's newest costumed criminal, but the man hadn't _seemed_ particularly unstable when they'd gone toe-to-toe last. Really, someone putting that much meticulous work into a single heist had to be relatively level-headed. Bruce approached his work with much the same obsessive attention to detail, after all, and _he'd_ never ended up in an asylum. 

"He sort of... fell apart, after he was brought in. He had to be under 24-hour watch, make sure he was taking care of himself and all. 'No-strings' watch, if you know what I mean." She shook her head, blonde ponytail whipping around as she did. "I shouldn't be telling you any of that. Listen, Mr. Wayne, it's been a pleasure, but you can't go asking those kinds of questions. _All_ of our patients deserve their privacy respected, high-profile criminals or no. Get your entertainment from the news. I won't tell you a word more." 

Bruce was teeming with questions, still, but he felt a bit guilty squeezing the kind psychiatrist like this. "Sorry, Dr. Quinzel. I was just curious. I didn't realize I was crossing a line, there." 

They'd reached the front office now, where the two branches met. Out front, Alfred should be waiting by now, ready to shuffle Bruce off to the next item on today's agenda. 

"Well, I'll get out of your hair. It was very nice meeting you. Thanks for everything." 

Bruce moved to continue out the doors, but the psychiatrist looked as though she had more to say, and so he paused. 

"Mr. Wayne... I hope I didn't come off as rude, earlier. You're free to check in whenever you like, we'd love to have you. I just want to make sure I didn't give you the wrong impression-" 

"Not at all, doctor. I can appreciate the need for discretion." He shot a small smile her way. Her posture relaxed. "You have a good day." 

"You too!" She called. 

An interesting woman, all in all. If she was representational of the rest of the staff, Bruce had no complaints. 

Then again... Nygma had complained about the freshness of the staff. Bruce made a mental note to himself to compare the previous job experience of the hirees when he returned home later tonight, when he looked into the other concerns brought to his attention today. In particular, he'd like to have a look at the renovation plans again. He'd seen the rotunda structure, sure, but hadn't pieced together that and the proposed glass doors for the cells. They'd prioritized security over patient health, it seemed, which went against the whole point of moving certain prisoners to a mental health care facility in the first place. 

"What's got your brow in such a furrow, Master Bruce?" Alfred asked, ushering him into the car. 

"Just... thinking over some of the things I heard about today." He responded absently. "I wasn't allowed to see much of the facility, after all." 

"Well, that _is_ quite the disappointment. I suppose you'll be investigating via other methods, then?" 

Bruce hummed affirmatively. "I will be. I already spoke to a couple members of the staff, a Dr. Quinzel, mostly. I was also allowed to speak to one of the inmates." 

"And who might that be?" 

"The Riddler." 

Alfred scoffed. "I can't imagine that talk was particularly enlightening. I suppose I must congratulate you on keeping your temper, if you had to deal with _that_ one." 

"No, it was... not quite what I expected." Sure, the man had been infuriating and cryptic, but nowhere near the level the Batman was accustomed to dealing with. If he didn't know better, he might think the Riddler was _intentionally_ aggravating when dealing with the Bat. "In any case, I got a starting point from them. I'll look into things further when we get back." 

"So... are you still up to that date with Miss Page, then, or has this excursion worn you out?" 

_That_ was the next thing on the list, lunch with Linda... "I'm fine, Alfred. I can't cancel another date this close to Valentine's Day, anyway." 

"You make an excellent point, sir." Alfred replied in a tone that suggested he would have made that point himself if Bruce had argued.

A fond smile found its way onto Bruce's face. "I do, don't I?" 

\---

"This is a cute little bistro." Linda commented, sliding her peacoat off as Bruce pulled her chair out for her. She carded her fingers through her long, red hair, smoothing it out after the torment the frigid winter winds had given it, before finally removing her gloves.

"You don't like it? You had mentioned last we'd gone out that you preferred more casual dining." Bruce worried, taking his own seat. A waiter hovered nearby, waiting for them to settle in before pouncing, and he waved the man over. 

"Bruce, please." Linda laid a gentle hand over one of his own, trying to calm him. He did his best not to flinch. Mother had always said his aversion to touch was rude. "I love it. That's why I said it was _cute._ That's a positive word, you know." 

She paused her thought to order her drink, a fruity mimosa that the bistro strongly advertised, while Bruce ordered himself a water. 

"I'm just teasing you about your definition of _casual._ We still needed a reservation for lunch here, after all." 

Bruce wanted to argue that it was entirely different, that the wait list here was only about a week long, and shorter for someone with his name, but held his tongue. 

"Well, maybe you'll appreciate what I have planned for us for Valentine's Day, then." He said, instead. 

"Oh?" She leaned over the table curiously, hair spilling over her shoulder. "Other than that show you're taking me to? What else do you have planned?" 

He leaned forward, a conspiratorial smile playing across his face. "Something small, intimate, romantic... After the show, we'll have a private dinner for two at the most exclusive place in town." 

She laughed. "And where might that be? What venue are you renting out for the night, Mr. Wayne? The penthouse of the Royal Hotel, maybe? Or the Statue of Liberty? No, wait, you've booked out a space on the moon itself, is that it?" 

"I said 'in town' didn't I? Only one of those is in Gotham." He pointed out. 

"Where, then?" 

"Wayne Manor." 

She burst out laughing at that, startling the waiter who had just returned with their drinks. She held a hand to her face, trying to muffle the noise, but still giggling helplessly. Bruce ordered for them both, guessing at what Linda might like at her request, and sent a pout her way. 

"You mean- you mean you could take me _anywhere,_ anywhere in the world! Last year we went to _Paris_ for the weekend, and you just- you're going to take me to your _dining room!"_

"Hear me out!" Bruce defended himself. "No press, no paparazzi, no nosy wait staff. Just you and me, a crackling fire, and a candlelit dinner for two. Doesn't that sound nice?" 

Her giggles died out, the mirth in her eyes slowly replaced with a soft fondness. "Bruce, you could make _anything_ sound nice, you know that. You could convince God himself the sky is green." He shrugged, and she smiled. "But, yes. That does sound nice." 

"Good." He sighed with relief, looking sheepish. "It'd be a bit late in the game to change plans now, after all. I don't know that I could get a reservation of that scale this close."

"Ha!" She smiled over her mimosa, eyes crinkling with it. "So the truth comes out. Did you just forget to have Alfred make reservations? You can be honest." 

"Of course not! What do you take me for?" 

_A man who constantly changed plans or cancelled at the last minute, a man who frequently broke promises, a man who's idea of romance came from between the pages of his least favorite kind of novel rather than personal experience..._ Really, Linda had far too much patience for him. Far more than he deserved, anyway. 

She kindly didn't say any of that. "Really, though, Bruce, I love the thought you put into this. I know you're so busy all the time. It really makes me appreciate all the more the effort you take to listen to me and try so hard to make me happy." She lifted the hand she'd been holding and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, squeezing his fingers. "I love you. It's gonna be great." 

He squeezed her hand in return. "Thanks, Linda. I love you, too." 

\---

After he and Linda parted ways, his next appointment was a meeting with the Board, followed by dinner with a potential hireling, and, finally, drinks with Carmine. It was late into the evening, far later than he liked to return home, when he was finally free. It looked like he'd have no time for patrol tonight, not if he also wanted to follow up on his visit to Arkham as quickly as possible. 

"Alfred, keep an ear to police chatter for me, will you?" He requested. "Let me know if anything interesting comes up." 

"Of course, sir. Would you care for some tea while you work?" Alfred asked, already moving to prepare a pot. 

"Not tonight, please. I had far too many virgin daiquiris at my last stop for that." Sliding the note to the bartender not to serve him any alcohol had been the easy part. He'd just pretended to be giving the girl his number and no more questions were asked. Stomaching the sweet beverages had been the far more difficult part, not having much of a sweet tooth, himself. 

"Well, if you change your mind, let me know." The old butler seemed far too disappointed by the simple refusal. It wasn't as though Bruce ever managed to drink his tea hot, regardless. 

"Thanks, Alfred." 

The sound of retreating footsteps faded into background noise as Bruce lost himself in his research. First, he went through Dr. Quinzel's list, being the far more specific and detailed one, and checked her requests against the budget. It seemed more money had been poured into acquiring top-of-the-line equipment, rather than enough of the basics. He made a note to discount any equipment purchased from Wayne Enterprises, and to check into making a deal with their chosen suppliers when the hour was more conscionable. He'd also made a personal note during her tour to send in an electrical engineer for an inspection, having noticed several areas of concern with switch behaviors and line loads. He couldn't be sure, but he guessed the electrical work had been only partially updated from the originals during renovations. He made a short list of potential candidates, pulling names from the private contractors Wayne Enterprises employed. 

That left Nygma's list. 

_'Not too many people have been poisoned yet'_ meant some had been. It would be simple enough to send in a health inspector, though security protocols meant it couldn't exactly be a surprise visit. 

_'Bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and with laughably little experience under their belts.'_ Sure enough, several names on the therapy team barely had an internship on their résumés, let alone relevant work experience. The Dr. Quinzel he'd spoken to just today had had her internship at Blackgate cut short to be hired on here. Were they having trouble recruiting more experienced psychiatrists, or had they been seeking out these fresh faces purposefully? Either way, nothing more he could do about that tonight. He didn't have access to those hiring records from here, not yet. He'd need to surreptitiously plant some hardware when next he visited. 

_'Always watching, even when I'm not. In my fortress I remain, night and day, where I can see everything, but I cannot be seen.'_ Bruce pulled up the renovation plans again, scouring the blueprints. He'd been very pushy through the whole process, demanding to be kept in the loop for every stage of the project, and he had the increasingly-aggravated e-mail chains to prove it. That something like this had slipped by him... he cursed his negligence. 

They'd focussed attention, at his behest, on a single area, getting a small set of cells ready for anything that could pop up, even someone as volatile and creative as the Joker. They'd decided on the rotunda, and he'd cleared it, knowing their lack of resources meant the guard was spread thin, and keeping round-the clock watch on the cells necessitated drawing manpower away from other stations. 

He'd envisioned standard cell doors, at the time. Sturdy, steel ones, ones even Bane wouldn't be able to break through. When they'd proposed the change in material, pitching a sturdy, transparent plastic, bulletproof, shatterproof, several layers thick, it had seemed an excellent idea. 

He'd given the okay. 

That was his problem, wasn't it? Always seeing every detail, picking out the tiny pieces no one else would, but never putting together the big picture until it was just too late. 

He sighed, heavily. An expensive problem, stretching an already-stressed budget. He'd have to funnel more funds into the program. The renovations on the rest of the facility would have to be moved up, the prisoners moved, the doors replaced. 

He drafted a series of e-mails, scheduled them to send at 8 o'clock sharp in the morning, took a long sip of his cold tea (when had Alfred snuck that beside him?), and called it a night, though his mind was still abuzz. 

Rest would not come easy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: added chapter art!


	3. Chapter 3

"Pawn to d4!" Edward called out, finishing the last line dividing his map of Gotham into sixty-four squares with an emphatic  _ snap  _ of the lid back onto the Expo marker. Behind him, a motor whirred, a mechanical arm shifting the requested piece across the board, a  _ clat _ of magnets clicking together as the pawn reached its destination. 

"Knight. F. 6." The robotic reproduction of his own voice called out, announcing the computer's chosen move. The motor whirred again, followed by another  _ clat.  _

Edward picked out the green marker from his stash, popping the cap off and snapping it onto the other end. "Pawn, c4!" He called, drawing a little icon of a bomb into one of the map's squares with a giggle. "Get it? C-4?" 

_ Whir. Clat.  _

"Pawn. E. 6." A shorter whir than the others, followed by a clicking noise, followed by another short whir, another click, and then a horrible screeching. Edward barely managed to dive behind the nearest crate before the whole thing came crashing to the floor in a fit of sparks, the board upended, the pieces scattered, and the robotic arm wrenched into an unrecognizable shape by its own mechanized twisting. 

"Oh, fuck..." Edward twisted around, looking for the whiteboard with the robot's schematics. Ah, right behind the build table, like a  _ sensible  _ person. 

He hopped the crate, taking careful strides over the mangled machinery, and bounced over to the workbench, scanning the designs. 

Ah, there was his flaw. When he'd worked on the original prototype, he'd moved past a hiccup by having the machine increase power when its gears snagged on themselves. In the smaller version, the increased power had been minimal, shoving past the blockage with brute force without causing further damage. The crude solution proved itself...  _ insufficient,  _ now that he'd moved up to the one-eighth model. 

He'd need a new solution before this design could be made anywhere  _ near  _ its final size. 

Perhaps he'd approached this from the wrong angle... what else could he use to move the pieces around? He'd played around with the idea of individual movement, having each piece automatically move  _ itself _ , but had run into an issue early on in coding thirty-two little brains. Well, thirty-one. In the final version, Black's kingside knight would have his  _ own  _ brain, after all. 

Perhaps he could set up an electro-magnetic array? Have the pieces glide along between the squares in that fashion? Starting over completely would dig into time he didn't necessarily  _ have _ , but he  _ should  _ be relatively safe as long as he didn't make any moves... assuming the other escapees were causing their usual amount of trouble. Bane, at least, should be meeting up with his gang, securing a supply line of his preferred poison, and that whole shindig should keep the Dark Knight busy for a bit. Busy enough, at least, not to look into unusual expenses from fake accounts being shipped to unmarked buildings, that is. 

Regardless, starting over may actually  _ save  _ him some time, should the scaling of this model go more smoothly than the current one. 

Edward snapped the lid on and off his marker, keeping his thoughts in line with the rhythmic noise. He had plenty of other things to think about, after all. Like how to draw in the Bat's interest, firstly, how to  _ keep  _ it through the trials, how to funnel him into place before he got  _ impatient,  _ as he so often did. 

He had a hunch, just the  _ slightest  _ little hunch, that this setup might prove more... entertaining than his previous attempts. 

\---

_ Two weeks.  _

Arkham Asylum had been open for  _ two weeks  _ and they'd already had their first breakout. 

Bruce winced as Alfred tugged a shard of debris from his wound, clenching his teeth in anticipation of the inevitable sting of the alcohol. He had  _ maybe  _ been standing a  _ bit  _ too close to the tank when he set it to explode, but hindsight was, as ever, twenty-twenty. What mattered was he'd managed to disrupt Bane's Venom supply chain, and without any broken bones or extensive bruising, as he usually risked in these encounters. 

"I do hope you're prepared for the kind of retaliation he will prepare against you, Master Bruce." Alfred warned. "He will be desperate, and that will make him dangerous." 

Bruce shook his head. "That doesn't matter. What matters is that he won't be getting even more people hooked on Venom for the time being. I have other things to worry about now." 

"Fair enough, though I do want to remind you that the withdrawal symptoms are...  _ deadly.  _ If he is without his fix for long enough-" 

"He'll get taken in before it gets to that point. He knows exactly how long he can last. Like you said, he'll be desperate, and I'm counting on that to force him out into the open." Bruce leaned forward, pushing past Alfred's hovering hands to close out of Bane's case files. Behind that window, he'd already opened the files for the other unaccounted-for inmates. 

Alberto hadn't left. His first instinct, this close to Valentine's Day, was to check on the Holiday Killer, and he'd been relieved to find him unmoved, waiting patiently in his cell as the police and the guards secured the area. Bruce had then examined the other camera feeds, pinging between the other cells. 

Other than Bane, several of his other reoccurring foes had gone missing, including the Joker, the Riddler, and Calendar Man. 

Julian Day had been quickly apprehended, though, having returned to the same hideout he'd been arrested in, and sent back without any vigilante intervention. 

Bane had been slipperier, and the police too cowardly to act, but he'd faced the Batman once already, and soon would again. 

The Joker... they still knew so little about that one. He'd used a totally new toxin to commit a string of murders, rigged several skyscrapers with explosives, and transformed a hotel into a deadly simulacrum of an amusement park, and they  _ still  _ had no clue who he was or where he came from, let alone where he would go now that he had escaped custody. He was easily at the top of the priority list, if only for the simple fact that there was no way to guess what he might do. 

The cursor hovered over the case files. 

_ Easier  _ to track down would be the Riddler. He had a predictable modus operandi, after all. When he inevitably made his move, the Batman would be sent on a city-wide hunt, gimmicks and traps and  _ riddles  _ set up at every turn. Those took supplies, they took time, and they took an extensive network of disloyal crooks making a quick buck. He could be tracked down before he ever managed to send off the inaugural riddle. 

On the other hand, Nygma wasn't particularly  _ dangerous _ . His schemes were games to be played, puzzles to be solved. Injury and death were collateral damage, avoidable, unfortunate. They weren't the  _ goal. _ The goal was always  _ attention _ , and occasionally money, but never  _ destruction.  _

Bruce brought up the scant files pertaining to the Joker. He'd deal with the Riddler when the time arose. 

\---

_ Ruined!  _

Edward kicked a spray of water at the already-soaked machinery, letting out a scream that echoed around the walls of the warehouse eerily, bouncing off of the foot-deep saltwater still flooding the room. 

That  _ stupid  _ fucking  _ clown!  _ His empty-headed escapades and his dumb...  _ bomb-fish  _ had destroyed  _ everything!  _

He would have to  _ relocate,  _ he would have to  _ readjust  _ his maps, he would have to  _ rewrite  _ his riddles- 

Edward sank to a crouch, soaking his pants further in the murky harbor water, tugging at his hair like the pressure would relieve the crushing weight of his frustration, like if the stinging pain made his eyes well up with tears he wouldn't have to face the humiliating reality that this setback was the true cause. 

He was running out of  _ time!  _ He'd only managed to buy himself so much of it, releasing the others when he escaped himself, and the damned Bat was shutting  _ them  _ down quickly. Soon, he'd run out of distractions, and the self-styled detective would narrow in on his location. He had to  _ run,  _ he had to  _ move,  _ he had to... 

He had to finish what he'd started. The mechanics wouldn't be salvageable, but the flood hadn't erased much off the whiteboards. He just had to hope the full-sized model wasn't destroyed in the same way. 

No turning back. Forward, forward, ever forward. 

_ The eight of us go forth, not back- _

He grabbed a mop, and opened a bay door. There was no time to waste. 

\---

Fear toxin, the thief had called it. A chemically-induced panic attack. 

The hostage was dead, horror still frozen onto his expression, the toxin having driven his heart rate high enough to falter its rhythm. 

Bruce took slow, steady breaths.  _ With each breath in, imagine a light growing brighter in your chest. The air feeds it, makes it stronger. With each breath out, imagine blowing out the darkness, all of your anxieties taking the form of dark clouds you can push out.  _

He clenched his fists, but the soft padding of his gloves prevented his nails from digging into his palms the way they normally would, prevented him from grounding himself. He held the spikes of his gauntlet close to his stomach, instead, the pressure of the bladed edges blunted by the padding but still present enough to serve the purpose. 

The so-called Scarecrow was still in the building, and, panic attack or none, he needed to be caught. 

Hallucinations swam at the edges of his vision, coalescing into figures that startled him as he moved through the cluttered hallway, making him trip his way up the staircase: man-sized bats, shadowed figures wielding pistols, a green-haired maniac brandishing a deceptively cartoonish knife. 

"I did not expect you to find me so quickly, Batman." The thief's voice rang coolly from the landing above him. The shadows in the blank eyes of the burlap mask swam and danced, goading the nightmarish visions. "Surely, you have more important targets to be tracking down than I. I am simply retrieving what's mine." 

"You  _ killed  _ that man, Scarecrow!" Bruce argued. Motivations aside, that was enough cause. He'd followed a trail of death and terror to this place, and he couldn't let it continue. 

The thief hummed, turning away from his pursuer and continuing into the study. "It hasn't done the same on other subjects. His heart simply gave out. I will have to adjust the dosage in the future." 

The stairs seemed like they continued forever, becoming only steeper, but Bruce knew it was an illusion, his brain interpreting his elevated heart rate as exertion. He pushed onward, keeping up his breathing exercises. 

It was far from the first time he'd needed to keep a level head during a panic attack, after all.

The Scarecrow was picking through the shelves, sliding out books as he went along. The messenger bag at his hip grew heavy, filling out with titles Bruce couldn't focus enough to read. 

"He wasn't the first to die." Bruce growled out, finally reaching the door. He was reduced to panting breaths already, the toxin wreaking havoc on his sympathetic nervous system. 

The Scarecrow waved a gloved hand, peering over two nearly identical tomes. "Different formula. The intended purpose of the other is to claim lives. This one is only for terror." Both volumes were slid into the bag together, the clasps worked shut with deft fingers. 

The Scarecrow hovered over the Batman, watching him carefully, as though taking mental notes on his condition rather than facing any true threat. Based on his attitude so far, that certainly seemed to be the case. 

"I will be taking my leave now, Batman. Not to worry, the toxin should wear off in a matter of hours. I'm afraid any nightmares that linger after its effects will simply be the product of your own imagination, though." 

The thief made to step past his adversary, but Bruce slapped a tight grip around the man's forearm. The burlap mask gave little away, though the sharp tug away from his grasp told him he'd managed to startle him. 

"So, you still fight. Odd, your initial reaction was to freeze." 

Through the padded fingers of the gauntlet, Bruce could just barely make out the Scarecrow's pulse, quickening the longer he was held fast. 

"I can't let you leave here, Scarecrow. What you did to that man, to all those others-" 

"As I said, I am simply taking what's  _ mine. _ " The thief interrupted. 

"Their lives are not  _ yours  _ to take!" His fury at the man's detached attitude finally overpowered the fear freezing him to the spot. Shifting his grip, he tossed the man across the room, employing a very basic Judo form to do so, and used the moment bought by the distance to reach for the zip-tie restraints hooked to the utility belt. He closed the distance again in a rush, before the spindly man managed to get his feet beneath himself, ramming into him with a heavy shoulder, sending him prone once more. 

The first side of the tie zipped neatly to his thin wrist, sliding tight quickly, but not quickly enough. With the other hand, the Scarecrow swung the messenger bag, heavy as it was laden with books upon books, and the weight connected solidly with the cowl, the armored helmet the only thing saving him from a sudden, massive concussion. 

Dazed, the thief slipped from his hold, scampering off to the window. 

_ The window.  _

It was only the second floor. Likely, he would make it to ground level with little issue, even as unathletic as he seemed. Bruce staggered to his feet, vision swimming, heart pounding, stomach turning. 

He had to be stopped. The Batman had to be the one to stop him. A police investigation would take too long, allow too many more victims, would give him time to slip away. 

Bruce slammed into the window frame. The Scarecrow was scrambling down a tree, dancing neatly down the branches with practiced ease, even with the heavy bag dangling off his shoulder. 

The distance from the window to the tree wasn't far. It shouldn't have been much of an obstacle at all. Bruce regularly made his way across the city via rooftop. He'd never had a fear of heights. 

The second story seemed a mile away from the hard earth below, and he couldn't force himself to make the leap. 

A humming swelled from below, to the tune of a familiar lullaby. Having reached the ground, the Scarecrow had taken up a casual pace, singing softly to himself as though he had no worries at all, as though he hadn't just  _ murdered  _ a man over a  _ book collection. _ Bruce needed to catch up, needed to put a  _ stop  _ to this, needed to-

Needed to  _ breathe. _ He would be useless if he couldn't keep a level head. He'd be  _ especially  _ useless if he passed out here at the scene of a crime, and the creeping darkness at the edges of his vision warned him of the strong possibility of that happening. 

Bruce retreated, stepping away from the window and making his way down the staircase. The Scarecrow had claimed his toxin would remain in the system for hours. It had barely been ten minutes now since Bruce had been injected with the serum, and already he was severely compromised. Chasing after the man now, when he had no idea to what extent the toxin would affect him, would be foolhardy at best. He'd already made several stupid mistakes, failing to notice a  _ window,  _ for one, and in this business, any mistake could be his last. 

No, it was time to regroup. It was time to rest and plan ahead. Some kind of antidote or inoculation against the toxin would have to be prepared, a trap set. He'd managed to anticipate this attack just in time to catch the perpetrator in the act. 

Next time, he'd be ready before the Scarecrow even made a move. 

\---

_ "The suspect in these incidents, one Jonathan Crane, a former professor of psychology at Gotham University, was apprehended last night. Witnesses claim they saw the Batman at the scene, and that it was he who stopped the so-called 'Scarecrow' in his tracks, though the GCPD has not released any details at this time."  _

So, another piece was introduced to the board. Unexpected, though not unwelcome. Edward had taken to keeping the local news on in place of his usual background noise since the incidents had started. This Scarecrow certainly knew how to put on a show, though the Halloween theme in early February seemed a bit out of place. 

February.... 

Edward glanced, briefly, at the calendar dangling on the wall. It had been several days since he had remembered to mark off the date, but having the news playing constantly meant he was still fully aware of the passage of time. 

He hadn't yet decided on a specific day to launch the plan. Everything would be finished in the next couple of days, assuming no further hiccups (though he could always spend more time fine-tuning the details), and all that would be left would be to send off the first riddle and contact his hirelings. 

Holidays weren't his  _ thing,  _ and the whole shebang didn't necessarily have a Valentine's  _ theme,  _ but it  _ was  _ precisely one week from Valentine's today, and it wasn't like Calendar Man would be buying him any further time with how stupidly he'd been caught (what a disappointment...), and maybe,  _ maybe,  _ Edward was feeling a bit cheesy. What better day to set in motion a grand overture to vie for someone's attention? 

He tightened the next bolt with a bit more fervor than intended, grimacing. That wasn't the damned  _ point.  _ The  _ point  _ was to see the Bat broken and defeated. The  _ point  _ wasn't just to play the game, but to  _ win.  _ To  _ win,  _ to  _ prove  _ he was better, to discourage the masked vigilante so that never again would he even  _ attempt  _ to outwit the Prince of Puzzles! 

(' _ How lonely would that be,'  _ he did not think, ' _ if he were to actually give up?' _ )

No, he would decide on a more  _ fitting  _ date. Something that matched the chess theme. March second, perhaps? For the thirty-two game pieces? That was decent enough, he supposed. He could get everything set up in time, that way, make sure the mechanics worked smoothly. 

Maybe luck would even remain on his side. 

\---

"Listen, I don't know what kind of deal you had with the old owners, but this is  _ my  _ theater now, you hear me? I won't be  _ threatened- _ " 

"Hey, hey, come on! I'm just letting you know how things run around here! I'm not the bad guy, you know?" 

Dick flinched, ducking behind the curtain. He  _ knew  _ he shouldn't have come back here, his parents had  _ told  _ him not to hang around the stage after-hours, but the trapeze here was just that little bit further than it had been at the last stage they'd performed on, and he wanted to be totally, totally sure he could hit the mark every single time. 

And now he'd run into some heavy pushing around the owner of the theater.  _ Great.  _

"I know  _ exactly  _ what you're saying, buddy. I know your type. You and your boys don't scare me." 

"Just a little  _ insurance,  _ you know? In case something  _ happens  _ to the talent. Hey, it's no skin off my back if you turn it down, but you should know I'm only asking half of what I got from the last guy." 

"Lucky me." The owner snarked. 

"You've got a pretty big show coming up, don't you? Sold out seats and all. It's a good time to think about security." 

"I'm thinking about security, all right. Thinking about having them throw you out. Now walk out of here while I'm still giving you the option." 

The man cursed. "Alright, alright, if that's your answer. Hope you don't regret it, that's all I'm saying." 

"Out!" 

Dick held his breath as the man passed, storming towards the exit in a huff. The door slammed, and he deemed it safe to move. 

"Who's there?!" 

Or he was a little hasty. 

He stepped out, waving nervously at the owner. "Hi. Just me. Sorry." 

"Oh, the little Grayson." The owner sighed, rubbing his temples. "Great. How much of that did you hear?" 

Dick shook his head. "None of it! I was, uh, raiding the concessions?" 

The man stared at him judgmentally. "You're a terrible liar, kid." He cursed under his breath. "Jesus. Kid like you didn't need to see that." 

"I didn't see anything, sir! Cross my heart!" 

"Well, maybe it's a good thing. I could use a witness if he makes good on those threats. Come on, get out of here. This is no place for kids to play." 

"I wasn't-" Okay, maybe the particulars weren't important. He'd been caught, one way or another. "Yes, sir." 

"Atta boy. Let's get you back to your parents." 

As he was shuffled along, Dick took a glance over his shoulder at the door. It was like nothing had happened, like no one had been here, the room left exactly the way it had been for all of their rehearsals, but the  _ energy  _ in the auditorium had changed. 

He hoped the owner knew what he was doing. That guy gave him the absolute willies. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy valentines day! :)

"Sir? You have an incoming call." Alfred's tinny voice chimed in over the communicator. 

Bruce groaned, adjusting his position to take weight off of the bruised rib sending twinging pains down his spine. "It's a bad time, Alfred. Take a message." 

"Yes, sir, I understand that you're out on your patrol right now, but-" 

"Alfred, this cannot be more pressing than what I am currently doing." Alfred's timing _could_ have been worse, considering he'd called immediately _after_ Bruce had finally managed to restrain Bane, but it would have been _better_ if he'd called when Bruce had successfully made it _out_ of the damn hideout. Bruce thought ruefully of the several floors he'd only barely managed to sneak down to get here, when the gang _hadn't_ been aware of a Batman in the building, but they'd be on high alert now, and he... was going to need some extensive first aid and a hot bath when he made it back to the manor. 

"It's Miss Page, sir." 

Shit. 

"Patch her in, Alfred." 

"Right away, sir." 

A short mechanical crackle later, and Alfred's familiar tone was replaced with Linda's, worry already evident in her voice. "Bruce? Are you there?" 

He groaned, forcing himself to his feet. "Linda, hey. Sorry I haven't been able to talk, I've been-" 

"Busy, I know." She sighed. "I mean, I can't blame you, I've been busy, too. The hospital's been overwhelmed ever since the whole... incident at the asylum. I'm sorry, by the way, I know that was important to you." 

He laughed derisively, then winced. Maybe that rib was more than bruised. "Yeah, that was unfortunate. We'll try again, though. Figure out what went wrong and do better." He charged at the wall, using his momentum to run up it, snatching at the naked beams above. He hissed, cursing, as he discovered another injury; one of his toes was at least sprained, if not broken. Great. 

"Hey, are you... okay? You sound..." 

"Oh, no, yeah, I'm fine, Linda. Don't worry about me." He huffed, swinging his legs up. The panel he'd taken out of the ceiling was around here, and he wedged himself back into the crawlspace. 

She gasped. "Oh, no. Am I interrupting something? I'm probably interrupting something."

He chuckled. "A little bit." 

Linda groaned, embarrassed. "I know, I know, I _told_ you it was fine, but now I'm being the clingy girlfriend. I shouldn't keep you away from... whoever any longer. We can talk later. We're still on for Valentine's, right?" 

Oh. That's what she meant. "Linda, no, I'm not- I mean, I'm just at a kickboxing class. You're not interrupting- I didn't mean to imply that. Yes, we're still on for Valentine's." 

Her relieved sigh crackled through the receiver. "Oh. Good. I mean, about Valentine's. Not- Like I said, it's _fine_ if you- anyway, I was worried your schedule had picked up too much, and that you'd be too busy, but I'm glad we'll still get to see each other. I've been really looking forward to it." 

He peeked around the corner, checking that the hall was empty before he emerged from the crawlspace. "I have, too, Linda. That's why I've been so busy, you know? I've been trying to clear off my plate before then." 

There was a pause on the other end, and when she spoke again, Linda's voice was thick with tears. "That's so sweet, Bruce! I hadn't even- God, you're the best, you know? I love you so much." 

There were footsteps rounding the corner. He needed to wrap this up. "Love you too, Linda. I need to go, okay? I'll talk to you-" 

"Hey! Who's there?!" 

"Oh! Don't let me keep you! Tell Alfred hi for me!" 

He ended the call, swinging up to hide on the air conditioner piping. Even knowing the Batman was lurking nearby, people rarely thought to look _up._

Sure enough, the gang member walked right past, peeking into corners, but never above his own head. 

Bruce dropped down behind him, silently, the soft soles of his boots helping to absorb his impact. There was a staircase nearby, and if he could just get to it- 

"You!" 

Why couldn't anything be easy? 

\---

It took only moments for Linda to spot him as he stepped out of the car, racing over before Alfred even had time to close the door behind him.

"Bruce! Oh, it's good to see y- What happened to your arm?!" 

Bruce shrugged, wincing as the sling shifted. "Remember when I told you I was at kickboxing class the other night? I might've gotten a little overzealous and..." 

Her expression turned to pity and she laid a comforting hand across his cheek. 'Aw, you poor thing. You should really take better care of yourself! All these little injuries, I swear, you have the _worst_ luck!" 

He chuckled, hiding his wince as the movement jostled that same damn rib. It hadn't turned out to be anything major, but that didn't stop it from _hurting._ "That, or I'm just the world's biggest klutz." 

She smiled mischievously at him, looping her arm through his uninjured one. "Come on, I'll keep you steady up those nasty stairs. Watch your feet, come on!" 

Bruce patiently allowed Linda to guide him along, as though he were one of her particularly unsteady patients, pointing out every obstacle before they came to it and encouraging him to lean on her as they ascended. 

"Very good! See, you made it all that way with no trouble at all!" She teased. 

"Please tell me you're not going to keep this up all the way to our seats." He begged. 

Linda shrugged. "That depends. Can you make it all the way there without hurting yourself?" 

"I'll be _fine._ " He assured her. She appeared dubious, arching an eyebrow high, as though he'd just told her the most far-fetched tale she'd ever heard. (It wasn't even the biggest lie of the _evening._ He was lucky she only doubted him when she was teasing. He was lucky for a lot of reasons.) 

The usher checked their tickets, and another guided them all the way to their private box, central and lofty enough to get a strong view of the stage. The curtains were still down, attendees still swarming to their seats, and Bruce took his time reading through the playbill. 

Linda squeezed his hand, bursting with excitement. "Oh, I've heard such good things about this show! Everyone says it's a must-see, I was _thrilled_ when you suggested it!" 

He hummed, showing her the passage he was reading. "There's a little history of it in here. Seems like their stars are from a family of performers, used to do shows for circuses. Generation after generation of acrobats and trapeze artists." 

"Can you imagine that?" She laughed. "I bet those kids learn to somersault before they learn to walk!" 

"I don't doubt it. Look at this kid, he can't be older than- what, twelve?" 

Bruce pointed out the headshot among the other performers. 'Richard' grinned up at them from the page, his picture right next to a woman to whom he bore a striking resemblance. 

Linda tilted her head, getting a better look. "Maybe a little older, but not by much. I'm gonna guess... fourteen." 

He shook his head. "Crazy." Then again, that was around the age Bruce had started trying to teach himself parkour. He'd definitely done more reckless things than flinging himself across a stage with prior rehearsal into the waiting arms of someone trained specifically to catch him. 

(Linda didn't need to know that, though.)

The lights dimmed once, drawing their attention and quieting the crowd. 

"We thank you all for coming tonight to this very special performance. All proceeds from this show will be matched by the ever generous Mr. Wayne," The emcee paused, gesturing up to Bruce's box, "And donated to the Gotham Children's Hospital. Collections tins will be passed around after the show if any of you wish to increase your contribution. Now, without further ado, allow me to introduce Cirque L'Envol!" 

With a flash of lights and some small pyrotechnics bursting at the front of the stage, the curtains flew open, revealing the beautifully painted backdrop and the costumed performers, several already midair, a cheer going up among the crowd, unable to contain their excitement. Linda's fingers squeezed Bruce's tightly as she leaned forward in her seat, the lights from the stage reflected in her wide eyes, like a child at Christmas enthusiastically tearing into their gifts. 

Bruce's gaze tracked the movement below with careful precision, following the patterns of every dancer as they flowed around the stage, unable to shut off that part of his brain trained to track movement in battle. The volume of the music and the ever-shifting array of colors was quickly becoming overwhelming, reminding him unpleasantly of the Joker's deadly hotel-cum-amusement park. 

He prayed Linda wouldn't notice. 

The backdrops and costumes changed several times, as well as the style of dance and props, until finally the music faded and the lights went down, the emcee calling for intermission. 

Linda squeezed Bruce's hand again, more gently this time, and ran her thumb along the back of it. "Hey. You doing okay? You look a little..." 

He shook his head. "I'm fine, promise. Just a little headache." 

"From the lights?" She guessed. 

He nodded. 

"I might have ibuprofen in my purse, if you need it?" She offered, already leaning down to retrieve the bag. 

He waved her hands away. "No, no, it's fine. I'll be fine. I'm just gonna step out, okay? Be back before intermission's over." 

Reluctantly, she let him go. 

The crisp February air grounded him, bringing the buzzing that had started in his head down until his thoughts were quiet. Relieved, he returned to his seat, even dreading the second half of the show. 

Linda was absolutely loving it, and this evening was for her. Whatever happened, he couldn't let the night be ruined. 

\---

"Ready, Dick?" His mom asked, making some last-minute touch-ups to his makeup. 

"Ready!" He assured her, pumping his fists and showing off his biceps. 

"On in five!" The stage manager reminded them. 

"Okay, finish up your warmups. You look great." 

He thought he looked a little like a clown, but the bold makeup was necessary to be visible from the high-rise seating, so he took her word for it. While she swept off to find his father, Dick got back to his high-knees, bouncing around backstage and stretching out his legs. A good warm-up is like a hard-hat, his dad always said. Stretch well, and you keep yourself safe. 

His path wandered around into the wings, watching as the stage manager directed the techs in assembling all the necessary bars and ribbons. 

There was a man he didn't recognize. 

It shouldn't have been a cause for concern. Every theater they went to had their own staff, folks who knew the stage well and could work with the troupe's techs to get things set up as safely as possible. Sometimes, the theater hired or fired people mid-production, for varying reasons, though a new hire working on the day of the show was unusual. 

No, the man himself, and his presence here, weren't _inherently_ suspicious, but Dick had a bad feeling in his gut, and he _always_ trusted his gut. Especially after that man had been here last week, making those threats, this didn't sit well. 

He rushed over to the stage manager, desperate to catch her attention. "Ma'am! Ma'am! There's a new guy over there and-" 

"What are you doing on stage, Dick?! There's only- shit, two minutes! We're almost set up here, go back to your parents!" 

"But-" 

"Shoo!" 

Dick groaned, reluctantly jogging offstage. Who else could he- Of course! The owner! He'd know something was wrong! 

"Dick? Where are you going?" His mom called, but he brushed right past her. 

The owner had been hanging around for the whole setup, wanting to get a feel for how the production staff ran things. It was weird to have such a hands-on guy up top, but right now, it was convenient. Dick just needed to- 

"Dick! Stop playing around! We have less than a minute before curtains!" 

Too late, too late, too late! He didn't have time to warn anybody! He didn't even know _what,_ exactly, that guy had been doing! 

He grit his teeth and marched back over to his parents, letting them fuss and reprimand. He'd have to keep an eye on the equipment _himself,_ watch for anything weird while they performed. 

The music swelled. That was their cue. 

"It's showtime, little robin." His dad grinned, ruffling his hair. 

Right. Showtime. 

\---

A rope frayed, then snapped. 

At their highest leap, the pair of performers dropped, unceremoniously, to the stage below. 

They were killed on impact. 

A panic began among the audience, screaming and clamoring drowning out the music until it was cut out, the theater's ushers directing the crowd out of the doors. 

The boy, that grinning kid from the playbill, the boy who had minutes before performed a nearly-impossible acrobatic feat that had stunned the audience, who had slid down to the stage level with care and grace via nothing but a ribbon, now sat, crumpled, wailing over the broken bodies, blood leaking slowly across the stage, staining the knees of his costume. 

One of the deceased was the woman who he resembled so closely. Bruce could only assume the worst regarding the identity of the other. 

It was all terribly, gruesomely familiar.

Bruce could still hear the gunshots ringing in his ears, hear a boy wailing, _his own voice,_ could smell the burn of gunpowder, the coppery tang of blood, feel the dread seizing him as a man levelled a firearm at his own face, feel Linda's hand seizing his arm, her voice in his ear- 

"Bruce, hey, Bruce? Are you with me? Deep breaths, Bruce, deep breaths. Count with me, okay?" 

He couldn't _save_ them. He was right here the whole time, he saw the whole thing, and he could do _nothing._

"Down from ten. Ten, nine, eight-" 

All this _time,_ all his _training,_ and _nothing_ had changed. All he could do was stand by and _watch._

"-seven, six, five-" 

Who was talking? He'd been alone in the alley that night. Just him, the mugger, and the cooling bodies, _his fault-_

"-four, three, two-" 

But he wasn't in the alley, was he? That wasn't who died. There was a different child in pain, this time. It wasn't his own. 

_He could still do something._

"-one. Do I have you? Bruce?" 

He took a shaky breath in, holding it for a beat, then slowly let it out. _Imagine a light in your chest..._ "Yeah, Linda. I'm alright." 

Linda sighed with relief, dipping her head until it bumped his knee. When had she ended up in front of him? "Thank god. The police are here, they're trying to set up a crime scene. We need to leave, okay?" 

He shook his head. "I need to- the kid, I need to talk to him-"

"No, Bruce, not now. Let the police handle this." She pleaded, rising to her feet and giving him a hand up. He found he needed it, this time, needed to lean on her. His knees were so unsteady, his muscles so weak. He felt as though he'd just run a marathon, without ever leaving the seat. 

She led him outside, one step at a time.

The crisp night air was jarring, this time. Instead of clearing his head, it was just another stimulus, stacking on top of his already-overloaded psyche. He shuddered, leaning back against the wall. Solid, rough. The brick snagged at his woolen peacoat. 

_Ten, nine, eight-_

_Imagine breathing out a black cloud, made up of your fear, letting the light grow stronger-_

_Where was that boy?_

An ambulance was idling, a half-dozen police officers in a clump around the rear doors, the shine of a shock blanket peeking through the gaps between them. 

"Did you see anything at all suspicious? Anyone unusual, any tools that weren't supposed to be there-" 

"The owner of the place showed us pictures of the equipment, tried proving it wasn't an accident. Seems mighty suspicious he took those pictures, don't you think?" 

"You think he knew something?"

"Kid, what did you think of the owner of this place? Did you ever meet him?" 

Each voice layered over the other, cutting each other off and increasing in volume, not letting the poor boy have even a moment to _breathe,_ let alone come up with a response. 

Bruce pushed his way over. "Excuse me, officers. May I speak with the boy?" 

The grumpy glare of one Officer Bullock shot his way. "No can do. We've gotta interrogate the witnesses soon as possible, or do you want the guy who did this to just walk away?" 

He was the one who brought up suspicion about the owner. Bruce could guess what kind of leading questions he was about to ask the boy. "Please. He's going through a very difficult time, right now. I want to help him." 

"Bullock, back off. Give the boy some space." Newly-minted Captain Gordon cut in, moustache twitching in irritation. "Go ahead, Wayne. The boy could use a kind ear right about now." 

Bruce nodded. "Thanks, Jim. Could you...?" 

"No problem." Gordon shooed away the gaggle of officers like they were a gang of stray cats, making a nuisance of themselves in an alleyway. "Go on, get out of here. Split up, question the other performers. Don't need this many for one kid, anyhow." 

The way cleared, revealing young Richard, curled up with a hot drink in both hands, staring off absent-mindedly into the parking lot, snow just beginning to gather between the stones of the asphalt. 

"Hey. Holding up okay?" Bruce asked, taking a careful seat beside him. The vehicle gave just a bit under his added weight, just enough to jostle a splash of cocoa out of the mug. "Whoops, sorry about that. I can be a bit of a klutz." He briefly motioned to the sling cradling his arm. 

The boy breathed a short laugh, almost reflexive. "It's no problem." He stared into his drink for a moment longer before releasing his right hand, falling back on pleasantries. "I'm Dick. You look... familiar. Have we met?" 

Bruce held out his left, the right currently out of commission. The boy casually switched hands, his handshake far less awkward than Bruce's. Left-handed, or ambidextrous? "We haven't. My name's Bruce." 

Dick's eyes opened wide. "Oh! Bruce Wayne! You're the one who set up the whole... charity event thingie for tonight, right? That's what the announcer guy said." 

"That's me." Bruce smiled, letting the kid have his hand back. He immediately returned it to the cup, warming his fingers with it. "Not a lot of Richards go by Dick these days." He commented. 

Dick shrugged. "I was named after my grandpa. He went by Dick, too. Felt like a better tribute to his memory to use the same nickname." 

Bruce nodded in understanding. "Family's very important to you, isn't it?" 

Dick nodded, eyes glistening. He swallowed hard. "Yeah, it's..." He let out another short laugh that warped into sobbing, curling in on himself in grief. His fingers gripped the cocoa cup until it began to crumple, and Bruce took it from him gently. "It just doesn't feel _real_ , you know? It's like... this is all a nightmare, like the kind I _always_ get before big shows. My brain comes up with everything that can go wrong, and then I wake up, and my mom's there, and she tells me all the reasons it'll be fine. And then it is! Because we train and practice and we double- and triple-check the supports and this _wasn't supposed to happen."_

A lump rose in Bruce's throat. His chest _ached,_ torn afresh as though no time had passed, as though his own grief had replayed on that stage today. Dick leaned into him, and he tugged the boy close, giving him the hug they both desperately needed. 

"I just want her to tell me it's gonna be okay." Dick whispered, muffled by Bruce's coat. 

"Yeah." Bruce's voice cracked on the single syllable, his tears dripping down into Dick's dark hair. "Yeah, I know the feeling. After my parents died, I kept expecting to wake up one day to my mother scolding me for oversleeping, or coming home from school expecting my father to be at the table with his laptop, asking me how my day went without really listening, the way he always did." 

Dick choked out a sob, squeezing his fingers tighter into the thick wool of the coat, like it was his only lifeline keeping him grounded here, keeping him from dissolving into nothing but his grief, tying him through touch alone to his feeble body. "When does it stop _hurting?"_

Bruce rubbed Dick's back through the shock blanket, scratching with his nails, the way Alfred had always done when he got like this. "Alfred, my butler, he told me something when I was younger that I think- It's the best way I've ever heard to describe it." 

"Your butler?" Dick chuckled, wetly, the sound seeming to surprise him. 

"Hey, don't poke fun." Bruce chided. "The man raised me. Anyway, Alfred told me that grief is like a great big ball in a tiny room, and on one wall of that room is a button, and that button is what makes you hurt like this. Following me so far?" 

Dick nodded, hair tangling where it pressed against Bruce's chest. 

"So, at first, that ball is so big, compared to the room, that it's basically pressing the button all the time, but that ball starts to get smaller. Maybe it'll take days, maybe it'll take months, but that ball does start to get smaller. It hits the button less often." 

"But it still hits the button?" 

"It does. Even years later, when the ball is very, very small, it still sometimes hits the button. Not as often, and sometimes it just glances past, but it does still hit. Some days, that tiny little ball will hit the button a lot, and it'll even feel like the ball never got any smaller, but it did, I swear it did, and it'll start missing again soon enough." 

Dick took a deep breath, still shaky, but without sobs interrupting. 

"Okay?" Bruce asked, pulling away slightly, trying to catch the boy's eyes. 

Dick nodded, sitting back. "Okay." He agreed. 

Bruce handed back his cocoa, cool now, and Dick accepted it automatically, taking a sip, then downing it all in one go. 

"I'll get the officers to get you another one of those. Sound good?" 

Dick smiled up at him, weakly, tears staining tracks through what little remained of his stage makeup. "Sounds great. Thanks, Mr. Wayne. For everything." 

"Please, you can call me Bruce." 

Dick's smile grew, a little mischievous now. "Okay, B." 

Bruce tried to give the kid a stern look, but he could feel a tiny smile betraying him. 

Captain Gordon was ready and waiting, pouring another little cup of cocoa from the pitcher in his squad car before Bruce even reached him. "How's he doing?" 

"Better now. He's a strong kid. Resilient." 

"Good." Gordon nodded to himself. He looked tired. "Too many kids going through too much in this damn town. Makes me worry about my own." The captain sighed, rubbing his neck. "Well, still gotta question the kid. It's sounding more and more like there really is foul play at work here." 

"Anything I can do to help?" Bruce offered. His civilian identity was feeling especially constricting this evening. 

"Nah, you've helped plenty, and I mean that sincerely. You go ahead and get home. Looks like your lady friend's waiting on you." 

She was, indeed. Linda stood, hesitant, just outside of the police tape, arms wrapped tight around her middle. Bruce caught up to her, ducking under the plastic boundary smoothly. 

"That was really sweet, what you did." She smiled, rubbing his uninjured arm, comforting. "I can't believe I didn't know you were so good with kids!" 

He shrugged, dislodging her hand with the motion. "I'm not, really. Just... I knew I'd be able to relate, is all. Besides... those cops can be like _sharks."_

They glanced over to the ambulance, where Captain Gordon was speaking with the boy, Officer Bullock having snuck back over and inserted himself into the conversation again. Judging by Bullock's posture alone, he was trying to pull some kind of good cop, bad cop routine on the poor kid. 

"Do you think they're right? Do you really think... someone _did_ this, that it wasn't just an accident?" 

Bruce sighed, the evening weighing on him. "It's Gotham. There's a strong chance this was deliberate." 

"How awful..." She murmured. "And how are _you_ holding up? That was a pretty bad panic attack, earlier." 

"I'm... I'll be fine. I'm just... Linda, I'm sorry, but we'll have to postpone dinner. I don't think I can-" 

She shook her head. "Bruce, please. You don't have to apologize. I don't think I'd _want_ to try to do dinner, after... You get some rest, okay? And _call_ me. Don't think I haven't noticed how much you try to handle things alone." 

"Of course." He promised, even knowing it was an empty one. "Walk you to your car?" 

"What a gentleman." Linda teased, taking his arm. "Isn't Alfred waiting for you somewhere?" 

"I'll give him a call once I know you're safe." He replied, seriously. "It wouldn't be right, letting you walk through a dark parking lot alone, not when there might be a killer here." Not to mention the police. Gordon may have been doing his best to put pressure on his coworkers, but there were still plenty of bad apples spreading rot through the barrel. 

Linda seemed to follow his train of thought, expression turning somber as she glanced at the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles. "Well, then, thanks for being my big, strong knight in shining armor."

"Anytime." 

\---

"Master Bruce, I understand you take every murder in Gotham personally, but I really do think you should take the evening off." Alfred pleaded, though he hadn't stopped Bruce from descending into the cave. In fact, he'd brought down a plate (of what was _supposed_ to be Valentine's dinner) so that Bruce could eat by the computers, which was nearly encouragement on his part. 

"I _can't,_ Alfred. That boy lost his parents tonight." 

"I... understand. Still-" 

"Alfred, _please._ This is... Based on what the police were told, it sounds like mob involvement." 

Alfred sighed, heavily, looking at the data pulled up on the various screens with mournful eyes. "Master Bruce. No matter how heavily this all resembles... that night, it is not. Do not lose yourself to memory." 

Bruce took a sharp breath. He sat back, glancing across the screens. That _was_ why this was all hitting him so hard, wasn't it? "It's been years since you had to say that one." He noted. 

A wry smile twitched across Alfred's face. "Yes, well... You're very predictable, sir. The same advice continues to apply, even as you _appear_ to mature." 

_Don't lose yourself to memory._ Early on, nearly everything would trigger memories. Most often, it would be the memory of the murder itself, like it had been tonight, but other things, little things, would come back, hitting him just as hard, tearing the grief raw with the mundanity of it, all the worse for being utterly unexpected. He'd learned to recall himself, to ground himself in the present, but it had taken time, had taken struggle. 

_Some days, it may feel like the ball hasn't shrunk at all, but I promise you, it has._

"Thanks for the food, Alfred. I won't stay up too late. It's just... It's my responsibility. No matter how hard I've worked, I _still_ haven't rooted the mobsters out. They owe their legacy to my family, and we owe ours to them. Every single person that gets hurt because of them... I take it personally because it _is_ personal. I have the power to end it. I _have_ to end it." 

"Very well, sir." Alfred relented. "I cannot force you to listen to my advice, but I pray that you will, regardless. I do worry, you know." 

"I know. Get some rest, Alfred. Don't let me keep you up." 

"Good night, sir." 

Alfred's steps retreated, leaving the cave eerily quiet without him. Bruce returned to his work, the tear-streaked face of Dick Grayson haunting him like a wraith, spurring him to fervor like fire at his heels. The boy had reminded him of himself, yes, far too much so. 

He needed to find the culprit behind tonight's crime, and he needed to do it before Dick made the same mistake he had. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: posted chapter art  
> https://jovialjuggernaut-draws.tumblr.com/post/643773174173122560/when-you-come-across-a-boy-going-through-the-same


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to preemptively clear up confusion- yes, all of edwards goons are named mark. they refer to one another by last name, but he refers to them by first name, bc he doesnt care to distinguish between them

"Oh, Mr. Wayne! I didn't realize we were expecting a visit!" The nun who answered the orphanage doors greeted, startled to see him. 

He tipped his hat to her. "Afternoon, Sister. I was hoping to get a chance to speak with young Richard Grayson. I heard he was sent here." 

She nodded, a faraway look in her eyes. "Yes, that policeman, Mr. Gordon, said you might be by. A true tragedy, that was. It was truly God's grace that sent you there that night, Mr. Wayne." 

"Yes, ma'am." He replied, awkwardly, never really sure how to respond to the religious type. It must have been a suitable enough reply, as she allowed him inside, shutting the doors quickly against the cold. "How's he been, by the way? Settling in okay?" 

"Oh, yes. He's a cheerful boy, brought life to this place. Bright, too. He took to tutoring the younger kids right away. I'll bet that's where he's at right now, matter of fact." 

She led him down a wide staircase, descending into a wide common area, full of couches and tables and illuminated by an unnecessarily ornate chandelier. A donation, undoubtedly. Many of the Wayne's fellows in this city threw around donations like that, preferring to make their money seen, rather than doing the dirty work of finding the best places for their money to go. Bruce often worried his own charitable works weren't helpful enough, right up until he saw something like this. 

"Dick, sweetheart, you've got a visitor." The sister called out, and a head of thick, black hair shot up from the textbooks it had been buried in. 

"Bruce!" Dick cheered, leaping from his seat. "Gimme a sec, okay, Chuck? Try that next problem on your own until then." 

The freckle-faced boy beside him wrinkled his nose, frowning at the page in front of him. 

In a flash, Dick crossed the room, sliding over an unoccupied sofa in his haste. "What's up?" 

Bruce awkwardly lifted the serving dish in his hands, drawing attention to it. "I, uh, I made this for Valentine's dinner with my girlfriend. After... Well, it didn't end up getting eaten, and it seemed a waste to throw it away. Do you like sweets?" 

Dick brightened, taking the layered mousse off of Bruce's hands eagerly, investigating it. "I do! Hey, Pat, could you grab some spoons? There's enough here for everyone to have a little." 

The sister smiled gently at him, agreeing to do so, and disappeared off into what was presumably the kitchen, leaving Bruce surrounded by unfamiliar children, all blinking curiously at him, unashamed of their staring. 

"Hey, guys! This is Bruce Wayne! He's a friend of mine, right, Bruce?" Dick introduced, sending a wide grin over his shoulder. 

"Sure am." Bruce agreed, and shocked gasps went up among the children. 

"You're really super rich, right, Mr. Bruce?" 

"I heard you have, like, ten girlfriends!" 

"No, he's got ten _cars!_ He's got thirteen girlfriends!" 

"I heard your whole house is made of gold! Doesn't that get cold, though?" 

The stories the kids had apparently heard grew more and more outlandish, each one trying to come up with something more outrageous than the last, until one child claimed he had a 'pet Godzilla'. 

"No, no, no Godzillas. I do have a genuine dinosaur skeleton, though. A pterodactyl, actually." 

"Woah!" The awed chorus echoed around the hall, like that was somehow more interesting than a living, giant, fictional lizard. 

"Calm down, calm down! Form a line, I've brought plates for everyone!" 

Sister 'Pat' took the serving dish back from Dick, placing it on her rolling cart and spooning out portions onto little disposable plates. 

Bruce rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "Now, I can't guarantee the quality, you know. Like I said, I made it myself, and I'm, well... not much of a cook." 

Not waiting for the nun to be finished with her task, Dick reached around her and stuck a finger into the dessert, scooping out a fingerful of the stuff and giving it a taste. The sister smacked him on the back of the hand with the serving spoon, giving him a disparaging look. He smiled a little guiltily at her, before winking at Bruce. "Tastes fine to me! Chocolate's chocolate, right?" 

Bruce couldn't help but to laugh at the boy's antics, though his laughter drew the nun's aggravation. "Don't encourage him, you." She warned, before returning to her task, the dish nearly empty by now. "Boys. Always the same, no matter how old they get." 

Dick shrugged at Bruce, just behind the sister's line of sight. Bruce snuck a smile in return, quickly reverting to a serious expression when the nun looked up again. She rolled her eyes. 

"Here's the last of it. Not that you should get it, sneaking a taste like that, but it _was_ your gift to begin with. And, of course, one for Mr. Wayne." 

Bruce lifted a hand, gently rejecting the dessert. "I'm not much one for sweets, ma'am. You take it, you've earned it." 

The woman tried to act like she wasn't enthused about the prospect, but Bruce could tell she had a bit of a sweet tooth, herself. She led the gaggle of kids away from the cart and back to the tables, leading by example as she sat properly in a chair to enjoy her dessert, the children quickly following suit. 

"Hey, Bruce." Dick was suddenly behind his elbow, managing to startle him despite the electric-blue hoodie he was wearing, tugging his sleeve to catch his attention. 

"Yes? What is it?" 

Dick nodded to the other end of the room, where a small, unassuming door sat, tucked into a minor alcove. "Got something to show you." 

\---

The door led to a winding staircase, led past the second floor and into an attic space, old relics and stone gargoyles and huge bells scattered around the space, all clearly belonging to the cathedral across the street. Beyond the small balcony, the rafters were accessible, and it was these that Dick led Bruce down, keeping his balance perfectly despite the plate of mousse taking up his hands and attention. 

"I've been coming up here when I need some quiet." Dick explained, letting his feet dangle above the ornate chandelier. The shuddering crystals sent fractal patterns of light glittering around the arched ceiling, giving an ethereal glow to the otherwise dull and dusty attic. "No one else comes up here, obviously. We're actually not allowed, but there's only so many eyes for all these kids, you know?" 

"I can imagine." In a city as dangerous as Gotham, there were always more children in need of safe homes than there were safe homes available. What was actually shocking was that Dick was the type to seek out quiet. He'd expected such a gregarious boy to be quite the extrovert, though he supposed these were extraordinary circumstances. "How are you liking it here, all in all?" 

Dick shrugged, watching the movement below them, the other kids returning to their previous activities after their impromptu dessert. "I like it well enough. The sisters are nice, and they're doing their best, even if they're kind of overwhelmed. The other kids think I'm really cool, since I'm the oldest one here and since I'm an acrobat." A smile twitched onto his face, smaller than the ones he'd used downstairs. "They think I'm a real-life ninja." 

Between his athletic skill and apparent penchant for appearing silently, Bruce could see where the rumors might start. 

"But... I'm not gonna be here for long. Pat says I'll be sent to a foster home, soon, said they try to get the older kids out as soon as possible. I'm already thirteen, and most people are looking to adopt a younger kid." 

"You sound... upset about that." Bruce ventured. 

Dick chewed his lip, scraping the spoon around his plate to make a grating, repetitive noise. He didn't seem to notice he was doing it, so Bruce didn't stop him, although the sound made him feel as though his skeleton were trying to crawl from beneath his skin. He could understand, after all, the way a repetitive motion could align your thoughts, the way a consistent noise could drown out distractions. 

"I'm scared." Dick finally admitted, the scraping becoming a light tapping, purposefully quiet so as to not attract attention to their location. "You hear all kinds of stuff about foster families, you know? Like, people that get into fostering just so they can get that paycheck, that hurt the kids they take in, all kinds of stuff. _Especially_ in Gotham." The spoon went still, and he drew a knee up, bouncing the leg to some internal rhythm. "We hit so many places on the tour. Figures this would be the city where..." 

Bruce shrugged. "Gotham's not all bad. I know plenty of my own friends that have plenty of time and money to spoil a bright kid like you completely rotten." 

Dick scoffed. "Yeah, rich folks that care about their bloodline or legacy or whatever, right? You think they get into fostering random kids?" 

That was... fair enough. "Well... what if _I_ was your foster parent? I'm certainly not planning on having any biological children anytime soon." 

Dick squinted at him, dubiously. "You're not serious." 

"Well, why not? How hard can it be to become a foster home?" 

Judging by Dick's open-mouthed stare, this was a more outlandish suggestion than he'd considered it. 

"What?" 

Bruce was grateful for his years of training in that moment, the force of a teenager throwing him into a hug not even wobbling his perch on the rafters. Dick buried his face into Bruce's shoulder, squeezing him tightly enough to be almost painful, his injuries from a week ago still tender. 

"...Thank you." 

"Of course." _I know how tough this is._ He wanted to say. _I know how much I needed some stability._ He couldn't find the right words, not quickly enough. "I'll talk to the sisters. You be good, alright?"

Dick chuckled, wiping his eyes as he sat back. "No promises, B." 

\---

For all he could use his connections to expedite the process, Bruce wanted to do things right, and that meant actually carving out room in his schedule to attend the state-mandated fostering classes. 

A week into the two-month program, and he ran into what he would call his first hiccup. 

"Good evening, Gotham!" A frustratingly familiar voice crackled from every screen in the square, flickering green before showing the Riddler's grinning face, peering into the camera beneath his favorite bowler hat. "And especially to our very favorite bat."

On the next street over, the electronic signs still played the usual advertisements, uninterrupted by any villainous announcements. The Riddler knew he was here, somehow. 

"I have a very special _knight_ planned for you, Detective!" The video feed was briefly interrupted by an image of a chess piece, a standard black knight, and accompanied by an amused giggle at his own little joke. "So, let's get things rolling, shall we? Riddle me this!"

Bruce set the communicator in his cowl to record. It was always worth having a copy for reference for these gauntlets, especially since the man often snuck clues for further down early on. 

"Four brothers, the highest of the high, the lowest of the low. One follows the money, one follows his heart, one lives by the blade, one lives with a cane, but all are equals in the end. Who are they?"

The screens switched to a pattern of swirling question marks, then to a ticking clock, flooding the square with green light and the repetitive sound of the second hand's movement. 

"And remember to watch the time, Dark Knight! I don't like to be kept waiting." 

The screens went dark, then flickered back onto their previous stations, sending advertisements and news to the crowd below. 

_Shit._ The clock had been set to midnight, presumably his deadline, and it was already just past ten. 

_Four brothers…_

He'd put Nygma on the back burner for too long. So many other things had happened, so many things to focus on and to deal with, and he'd all but forgotten the threat still lurking in the background. 

"Alfred." He called, and, as always, the man was there nigh instantaneously. 

"Yes, Master Bruce?" 

"Run that check we'd been planning. All Nygma's usual aliases, unusual shipments to unusual locations, all of it." 

"Sir, are you aware it's unlikely such a search will turn anything up in the, what is it, _two hours_ Mr. Nygma has given you?" 

"I know, but _any_ chance we can get an edge on him is a chance we have to take. I'll try to solve his puzzles in the meantime." 

"Very well, sir, I'll see what I can drum up." 

_Four brothers…_ Bruce considered as he hung up. _Money, love, blade, cane…_ That sounded like card suits. Four brothers, four suits. _The highest of the high, the lowest of the low._ A whole deck, from Aces to Kings. But then, what was the last bit? _All are equals…_

Wait. One card could be either high or low, in certain contexts. That would make the 'brothers' equals. 

_The Aces._

But what did that have to do with… 

The neon sign of the facility shone in stark contrast with the dark skyline, removed as the new location was from the city center. 

Ace Chemicals. 

_Very funny, Nygma._

\--- 

A blinking light alerted Edward that the first recording had been triggered. Ideally, assuming he'd gotten the sensors just right and they didn't pick up a false positive, the Bat had begun the hunt. He switched from the city camera feeds to the private loop coming from the chemical plant, waiting to see a distinctive vehicle turn up. 

Surely, it would take even the self-proclaimed detective some time to parse the clue, giving Edward the time he needed to set things in motion. The clue had already been set, and now he just needed to gain access to the light switches, the internal workings having been re-encrypted after his last round of tests. As it turned out, his vision would work perfectly, assuming he could get back in. 

The Batmobile rolled to a stop just at the edge of the view the first camera afforded him, the hood sliding open and the Bat climbing out. With a quick motion of his little grappling hook, he swooped away, past the view of another camera and out of Edward's sights completely. No problem, as that path would have taken him… Ah, that rooftop there. 

The first set of lights turned on, green through the gels his hired hands had put into place earlier this evening, illuminating the breezeway with a sickly glow that, quite honestly, suited the facility's reputation better than the usual yellows. 

Besides, green was such a _fun_ color. Uncommon in the bleak cityscape, the wide variety of shades making any one particular hue _distinctive,_ proving _invaluable_ in creating a visual shorthand; _I am here,_ his preferred green said, _prepare to be puzzled!_

Obediently, the Dark Knight descended into frame, following the path into the depths. Onward Edward led him, lighting the path like a will o' the wisp, drawing his unsuspecting target into dangerous waters. 

Or, well, chemicals, as the case may be. 

Finally, _finally,_ the Bat entered the mixing chamber, moving frustratingly slowly in his caution. Was the time limit not brief enough?! The floodlights flicked on in response to movement, as they were pre-programmed to do, no intervention necessary, though these _had_ been outfitted with blacklight bulbs in preparation. The purple glow illuminating the security feeds sent a thrill up Edward's spine. _Everything according to plan!_

He set the pre-recorded message to play over the P.A. system, his voice echoing through the cavernous warehouse, distorted by the poor quality of the speakers. 

"Welcome to the first test, Detective! In the central control room, you'll find a diverting little puzzle. Solve it, and you'll disarm the explosives set up around the room! Or, I suppose, should the challenge prove too great, you could also try to disarm each individual bomb, but, of course, you're working on a time limit." 

Beneath the sharp-edged cowl, the Bat's lips moved, whatever snarky response he had for Edward lost without any microphone to catch it. (A pity. He'd have to find some way to hack inconspicuously into his headset sometime.) 

Despite whatever complaints he may have had, the Bat swept into the room, as instructed, cape swirling behind him dramatically. (Surely, that much flair couldn't be achieved by the Dark Knight's movement alone. Did he _swish_ his cape manually? Or, maybe, he had some sort of electronics, manipulating the fabric at the spines.) 

Distracted by considering the possibilities, Edward nearly missed the masked man completing the puzzle laid out for him, sliding the last block into place and triggering the mechanism which would simultaneously flip the tiles (revealing the next riddle by the blacklight, a decision Edward had switched to only days ago, and God, did it look good!) and also turn the little timers off of the fake bombs (no use wasting money on real ones when the Dark Knight was near guaranteed to 'disarm' them, anyway). 

"Very good! The next puzzle awaits! Be quick, Detective, or you'll feel the _crushing_ weight of failure." The speakers waned as the announcement ended, Edward disconnecting his feed to them and moving on to his next location. 

_Two down, one across._

\---

_I am a bird that cannot fly, yet I carry great weight up into the sky. What am I?_

The letters glowed dimly up at him from the ridiculous puzzle, the reward for his success. It was as irritating as it was expected. 

A sliding-block puzzle? Really? Was he reduced to the level of a kindergartener? Surely, Nygma could come up with something marginally more _challenging._

Bruce scoffed at the naked _insult_ of the thing, before realizing the path his thoughts had travelled. 

He shouldn't want to be challenged. He was here to prevent damage to the city and injury to her civilians. He wasn't here to play games. Really, he should be _glad_ the puzzle was easy, that he didn't have to waste any time on it. An explosion here, among the various reactants, had the potential to be devastating, and not only to the plant itself. 

_I am a bird that cannot fly._ The answer was clearly 'a crane'. Which crane? The city was full of them, especially this close to Ryker Heights and the swath of ongoing construction projects there. 

Briefly, he wondered if the 'crane' was referring to Jonathan Crane, considering Nygma's penchant for double meanings in the answers to his riddles, but he shook the thought from his head. The man was in Arkham, had been for weeks, and Bruce had no reason to suspect they even knew each other, let alone were in cahoots. 

No, a literal, industrial crane would make more sense. 

He swept from the room, returning to the roof of the facility, earning himself an aerial view of this corner of the city. Sure enough, he could see half a dozen cranes on the island, not even counting the one within the Ace Chemicals compound. Checking each one individually would be a waste of time. There would be some clue, some indication, as to which one was the correct one. 

_I carry great weight..._ That's it! One of the nearby projects was a new gym, a state-of-the-art facility with an 80-foot indoor rock climbing wall, as part of what was being advertised as an 'adult Jungle Gym', but would also feature a standard weight-training area. 

He checked the time. _10:38. Shit._

He needed to pick up the pace. 

\---

The Batman breezed past the little time-trial Edward had set up in the construction site, faced a brief setback while playing Simon Says on Wayne Tower, but still successfully obtained the fifth clue from the glass case at the jewelers (and who knew the GCPD's bloodhound had such skill as a cat burglar? Edward had been fully prepared to shut down any silent alarms, but the Bat hadn't set off a single one!), and all before 11:30. 

And that's when the whole thing went off the rails. 

Edward switched his camera feeds over to Pinkney Orphanage. The closest thing to security cameras here were just nanny-cams, set up to an internal network, so he'd set his hirelings up with bodycams. They were set up there to take all the little orphans hostage already, so why not get a little extra use out of them? Hired help didn't exactly come cheap around here, after all.

Three of the feeds milled about a common area, a massive, ornate, and incongruous chandelier glittering overhead. (Edward had half a mind to claim it for himself. Maybe someday, when he'd managed to shack up in a more permanent hideout.) From these, he could see the crowd of children and nuns, wrists bound and looking appropriately intimidated. 

One camera, however, pointed squarely at the ceiling. 

For a moment, Edward assumed he'd somehow missed the Batman's arrival, that he'd snuck around and incapacitated the man, but switching briefly back to the city cameras showed the distinctive Batmobile charging across the bridge. Was the man simply... napping on the job? Knowing full well the threat he was about to face? 

"Mark? Mark! Wake up, you useless-" 

"Sorry, buddy, but your guy's not feeling too hot." An unfamiliar voice snickered into the microphone. The voice sounded young, prepubescent. One of the orphans? 

"Listen here, you little shit-" 

"Hey! You shouldn't curse! There's kids around!" The boy's voice scolded. 

"I swear to _God,_ twerp, I will make you regret being _born."_ Edward threatened.

"Well, good luck with that. I'm gonna get moving, okay? The rest of these goons aren't gonna just knock _themselves_ out!" A hand waved in front of the bodycam, and then the little shithead was gone. 

Edward screamed into his hat, only barely muffling his frustration. He switched on the rest of the mics, alerting the rest of his men. "You idiots! One of those fucking kids is running around _loose!_ Did you not notice you're a man down?!" 

"Don't worry, boss. Anderson just went to go poke around for valuables. He said he'll be back in five," came the casual reply. 

"Well, somewhere between where you are _now_ and wherever it is he _went,_ he was knocked _unconscious_ by a _child!_ So, maybe, get your fucking _asses_ in gear before-" 

A pair of legs swung in front of another of the cameras, blocking the view momentarily before sending the angle spinning sharply, now pointing across the floor, a pair of sneakers just barely in view. 

"You picked the wrong orphanage, Riddler!" That same annoying child as before accused. "Now, which of you goons wants to go first?" 

The two remaining cameras both turned to face the obnoxious child, grinning away in his sneakers and his- _bright blue hoodie?!_ How did these dumbasses not _see_ him coming?! 

While the most useless hired help in the history of Gotham scrambled for their firearms (and did they seriously not have them ready when they were _warned_ Batman was on his way?!), a spunky little tween _cartwheeled_ across the floor, slamming into yet another grown-ass man who was apparently completely unable to defend himself against a _child,_ and then there was only one man left standing. 

A man with a fully-loaded shotgun finally pointed in the correct direction. 

"Mark, I'm giving you just one warning." Edward murmured into the mic. "If you go down now, I'm going to make the _rest_ of your days a _living-"_

The final bodycam was now pointed square on the linoleum. 

"Are you hurt?" The Batman's growling baritone crackled across the feed. 

_Great. Just wonderful._

"It'd take more than a couple tough guys to scare me!" The kid claimed proudly. 

"What you did just now was reckless. Those men were armed." The Batman scolded. 

"What was I supposed to do?! Just let those guys bully my friends?" 

"Yes."

"What?!" The boy's indignant screech peaked loudly enough to be picked up by all three microphones in the room, making Edward flinch back from his speakers. "You can't be serious! Why's it totally fine for you to kick some bad-guy behind, but it's 'reckless' for me!" 

"Are you wearing Kevlar under that jacket, by any chance?" There was a weighted pause. "That's what I thought. Stay safe, stay smart. Don't be a hero." 

"But-" 

Edward grew tired of this exchange. "Now, not that I don't _love_ youth outreach, but I think you're forgetting a crucial little tidbit, Batman. See, in your haste to rescue this little _twerp_ , you've breezed right past the puzzle I had prepared for you. Unfortunately, you're still on a time limit, and if you can't find me in the next, oh... twenty minutes, now, your precious city will have to pay the price." 

"Not an issue, Riddler. I know where you are." 

"Oh?" A bluff, surely. 

"You're playing chess with me, aren't you?" 

_Or it was not._

"You gave me the hint way back at the start. You said you had a 'special night' planned. Or, rather, 'knight'. I realized the path you had me taking resembled the movement of the chess piece, and now I know where you're hiding: the Port Adams shipyard." 

_He's closing in._ Edward clamped down on the _thrill_ that gave him. "Brilliant deduction, Detective. I eagerly await your arrival." 

The camera feed still pointed across the floor showed the Bat's boots stomp around, stopping at each gunman and cuffing them. "Free the others. I'm going after Riddler." The Bat ordered. 

The boy's sneakers scuffed the linoleum, fidgeting. "Thanks! For saving me, I mean. I'm sorry if I, y'know, got in your way. With the whole puzzle thing, I mean." 

The ever-brooding Bat didn't spare the boy another word before sweeping out the doors. _Excellent._ Edward didn't want to waste any further time before the main event began. 

_Places, everyone!_

Soon, so very, very soon, he would see the Batman. _Defeated._

\---

"Yes, here's something. A warehouse purchased entirely in cash, just days after the Arkham breakout. The buyer signed his name only with an 'x'." Alfred informed him. 

"That sounds like the one. I'm on my way." 

Alfred relayed the coordinates, and Bruce wasted no time returning to his vehicle. He'd wasted too much time already, playing along so far into this whole convoluted scheme, and he could only hope Nygma's time limit didn't _also_ encompass whatever nuisance his big finale happened to be. 

He had precious little time to succeed, if so. 

The Batmobile's engine roared to life, propelling faster and faster across the bridge, its driver deftly maneuvering the familiar streets, even at the high velocity, the rare vehicles sharing the pavement crawling like shiny-shelled snails in comparison. The wheels squealed in protest as he spun the corner into the shipyard, dodging crates and shipping containers in his haste to arrive at the provided coordinates. 

The warehouse in question bore a distinctive logo, a mallard with a pipe, the previous owners clearly having only owned the one location here. Bruce wondered what the Riddler's clue would have been, had he taken the time to find it. 

The question was moot now, anyhow. 

With a smooth motion, he snapped his grappling hook to the roof, aiming to descend from the skylight. Ideally, he could drop in before he was noticed, giving himself a moment to assess the situation before being trapped in any obnoxious games. He cut his way through the glass, giving him enough room to slip his body through, using the grappling hook to control the descent. 

There was a quiet revving of a motor, a scraping of metal against metal, and his hook lost purchase, sending him plummeting to the ground below. 

"Welcome, Dark Knight. Thanks for _dropping_ in." Nygma's taunt was interrupted by his own laughter, too amused by his own joke to get the whole thing out with a straight face. Lights flickered on, twisting and neon, illuminating the edges of the room without spreading much light. _Green._

Bruce may not have had a favorite color, per se, but he'd certainly developed a _least_ favorite color, of late. 

"I imagine you can guess what sort of game I'd like to play without me explaining, but I'm going to lay down some ground rules, regardless. I know how much you like to _cheat,_ after all. Skipping the final riddle to cut straight here, tisk, tisk, tisk!" 

The floor beneath him illuminated, finally flooding the space with enough light to decipher individual objects. Alternating squares, in green and purple, marked out a familiar sixty-four-tiled game board, with man-sized pieces lining either side. Surrounding the Batman, the pieces were all a deep black, shining like obsidian, while on the opposite end, the pieces were translucent and green, looking all the world like they would glow in the dark, under the right circumstances. There, atop a pedestal, placed where the king should go and illuminated purple from below, stood the Riddler, spinning his signature cane as though he were in the color guard of a marching band, his question-mark-bedecked suit looking brand new. 

"Yes, we are going to play a _proper_ game now, Dark Knight, with you playing, well, a dark knight. Get it?" He giggled, clearly confident the Batman would play along. 

_Fat chance._

Bruce surged across the board, pushing past both ranks of pawns, charging with enough speed to climb up the ridiculous pedestal, snatching at the smarmy criminal-

The king opened up, dropping the Riddler inside, and sealing itself shut. "Ah, ah, ah, my little knight! You have to play properly to get to me! Mate me, without being taken, and you win! I'll go along with you, willingly! You get to bask in the knowledge that you've bested me, and sleep soundly with the knowledge that your greatest rival is behind bars." 

Bruce swung a fist, putting his whole weight behind it. The translucent king was unforgiving, his attack not so much as denting the thing. 

"Now, get back to your place, little knight. We'd best begin if you want to catch me by midnight, after all." 

The square he stood on crackled with electricity, sending him stepping backwards involuntarily. The next hummed to life, in turn. He took another step, and another, chased by the threat of electrocution all the way back to the black kingside knight's square. 

"Fine. I'll play your game." 

"Very good! I'm glad to hear it." The Riddler's voice rang out from a speaker overhead, now muffled by his self-imposed prison. "Now, riddle me this! I cannot move forward without stepping to the side; Though armies stand before me, they do not hinder my ride. What am I?" 

"You're a knight." Bruce growled. 

"With all technicality, I'm afraid that's you." The Riddler purred. "But you are correct! The answer is 'a knight', and I'm sending mine to f3." 

Machinery whirred to life within the translucent knight, and forward it slid, the pawn in front of it dropping temporarily beneath the board. 

Bruce mentally ran through all the games he knew with this opening, which would lead to White's defeat, which would avoid his own piece being taken. 

He stepped forward, mirroring Nygma's move, standing firmly on f6. 

"I do hope the rest of your moves don't take quite so long to decide. See, I put a great deal of planning into this going off today, and I'd really hate for the date to turn over before we conclude." The Riddler chastised. "Now, here's another one for you; The eight of us go forth, not back, to protect our king from an attack. What are we?" 

"Pawns. You've used that one before. You're repeating yourself." 

Across the board and through the translucent barrier, the Riddler's lips curled into a smile, slowly, deliberately. "Oh, am I? Sorry about that. I'll be sure to keep better track in the future. I'd hate for you to get bored." He leaned back, giving himself room to stamp his cane to the base of the cage. "Yes, pawns! I'm sending one to c4, for now. Careful, that's a _volatile_ square." 

Bruce ignored Nygma's giggling. "Pawn to g6." 

The pawn he had just stepped around slid forward. Watching it this closely, he was able to observe its movement. No wheels of any kind. Curious, he slid a batarang from his belt, dropping it to the green-lit square beside the piece. 

It floated, hovering just inches from the board. 

Magnets? Why would he be using electromagnetic propulsion for _chess pieces?_ How fast did they really need to go?

"Knight to c3! And no cheating, I see you reaching into your little belt there!" 

Again, the pawn dropped down, allowing the knight to slide forward. 

Bruce called his next move, sending a bishop forward, and Nygma responded quickly, another pawn. Bruce called for a castling, the rook sliding down to make room for the king once it reached its place. 

He'd have to time it carefully. Likely, the switchboard controlling the magnets was down there, or, at least, the wiring connecting it all. He'd be able to dismantle this aggravating game board from the inside. In all likelihood, the Riddler would come out of his self-imposed prison to stop him, and then Bruce would have him. 

He just needed to time it. 

Onward and onward they played, pieces gliding around, until Bruce sent forward one pawn to take another. The floor crackled with electricity again, followed by an ear-splitting _explosion._

Nygma's laughter echoed around inside his translucent cage, the man doubling over with mirth. "I told you, didn't I? C4 is a _volatile_ square! Though..." He tapped his cane against his palm thoughtfully. " _All_ the pieces will detonate when they're taken. Lucky for you, you're not a plastic explosive! Then again, I do believe that voltage will still have some _negative_ consequences." 

_Shit._

"Let's continue, shall we? Queen to c4!" The Riddler ducked, plugging his ears against the upcoming explosion, and Bruce followed suit. The queen slid over, pushing the debris out of the way. 

Bruce considered his next move carefully. So far, Nygma had been following the pattern of Byrne v Fischer play-for-play, as had Bruce. It was unlikely to be a coincidence. Therefore, Nygma must _know_ this pattern would lead to his defeat. What was his _game?_

"Stumped already, Dark Knight? The clock's still ticking!" 

They were only on the seventh move now. This game lasted forty-one moves. He only had ten minutes remaining. 

He'd run out of time before checkmate. 

Instead of sending forward a pawn, Bruce stepped forward again, sidling around the bishop. The Riddler hesitated, considering. 

"I wasn't expecting you to deviate so early… Knight to g5." 

The bishop beside him dropped, the white knight swinging around behind him. The pieces loomed high, just taller than himself, making him feel caged-in, even with only two sides blocked off. 

"Pawn, h5." 

The pawns were shorter than him, shorter than Nygma, even. He could see over and around them. Despite being packed with the same explosive charges, some instinctual part of him felt they were less of a threat. 

"Queen takes f7." 

The pawn exploded, the piece shifting to take its place, closing in on Bruce's king. 

Nygma hadn't specified what might happen if Bruce lost the match. 

"Rook takes f7." 

Another blast. Debris was building up across the board. Eventually, it would be nigh-impossible to navigate. 

"Queenside castle!" Nygma lost his footing momentarily as his piece shifted, throwing him off-balance, but he played it off, leaning too-deliberately against the walls. 

Bruce began to step forward, intending to use his own piece again, but paused a moment later. 

"Knight takes f2." Bruce called. 

"Oh? You're the knight in question, aren't you? Why don't you-" 

The pawn exploded before he could finish the taunt. 

Nygma pouted. "Oh, very well. Go take your place. Rook to g1." 

The rook slid over as Bruce stepped into place, closing in on him. 

"Queen takes a2." Quickly, Nygma's army was being whittled down. Clearly, he cared little for sacrificing his pieces, playing chess just like he played his real-world schemes. 

"Knight takes f7!"

"King takes f7." 

The black king stuttered in its path, struggling to push past the debris in that corner. The nearby pieces were bumped, sliding just to the edges of their squares, before the nearby magnets trapped them in place. 

"Bishop takes c7!" 

Time ticked on. He needed to force a move. "Queen to a1."

The Riddler's eyes widened as the piece slid into the rank beside him. "King to c2!" He yelped, bracing himself this time for the movement. 

"Knight takes d1." 

Nygma flinched, the rook exploding, and Bruce stepped over the debris to come face-to-face with his opponent. 

"Ha!" The Riddler shouted triumphantly, tapping his cane against the wall. "Too bad, Dark Knight, but I'll be taking you now. King to-"

"It's against the rules to put yourself into check, you know." Bruce reminded him. 

Nygma turned to the queen, lying in wait. If he moved to where Bruce was now, she would take him. "You're not about to make an illegal move just to beat me, are you?"

Nygma fumed, glaring with single-minded fury into the blank eyes of the Batman's cowl, before pointing behind himself, the cane tapping again at the walls. "Bishop takes b8!" 

"Bishop to f5." 

The piece moved into place, Nygma's king directly in its path. The Riddler glanced around the squares beside him, taking in his options. "Pawn, e4." 

"Bishop takes e4." Bruce responded smoothly. 

An alert went off in his earpiece. Midnight. 

"King to d2." 

Did he… not notice? Was there no similar alarm set, no bombs on timers just waiting for the clock to chime? 

"Knight takes b2." 

"Bishop to d3!" 

"Knight takes d3." 

Nygma's pieces were whittling down, the time limit was already expired, but still, he fought. 

"Ah, ha! Rook takes a1! Your queen is forfeit, Batman!"

 _He's having fun._ Even losing, he was enjoying the game. 

"Bishop takes d4." 

The funny thing was? 

So was Bruce.

"Rook to a3!" 

"Knight to b2."

"Rook to f3!" 

"King to g7."

"Bishop to e5!"

"King to h6."

"Bishop takes d4!" 

Bruce was in danger again, his current square firmly within the bishop's trajectory. He was staring down the barrel of a metaphorical gun. His opponent might play by the rules, but he also wouldn't hesitate to pull that trigger. 

It was… _exhilarating._

_Not the time. Focus._

"Knight to c4." He called, stepping around the debris, kicking larger pieces aside. _When had he started calling out his own movements?_

"King to c3!" 

The Riddler was chasing after him now, throwing his king into danger just for the long chance of cornering him. Bruce had won already. 

"Knight to d6." Bruce announced, dancing away. 

"Rook to f6!" Nygma called, threatening him once more. 

"Rook to c8." Bruce responded, threatening Nygma, in turn. 

"Bishop to c5!" 

The piece shifted and stalled. 

"Bishop to c5, I said! Useless fucking machine! Go, already!" 

The debris was too much. The bishop was stuck. 

Without considering just _why,_ Bruce nudged a large chunk of what used to be his own rook out of the way, allowing the bishop to pass, entering the square that would threaten him again. Nygma's wide-eyed stare, his shocked response, finally made the oddity _click._

Without announcing it, Bruce shifted himself to the bishop's other side, nudging more of the debris out of the way as he went. 

"King to c4." Nygma instructed, the piece moving to close in again, more fluidly, now, with the removal of the obstacles. 

"Rook takes c5." Bruce called, and the odd spell was broken, the explosion so near both of their ringing ears. 

"I'll have you, one way or another. You can't run forever, Dark Knight." Nygma snarled. He was growing irritable, impatient as ever. "King takes c5!" 

Another blast, and even more debris in the way. Bruce stepped back, the slotted head of what was once an oversized bishop rolling towards his feet, and was shocked, quite literally, when he stepped too far into the next square. 

_Right._ This wasn't a game, this was a threat, a trap, danger at every turn. He was _supposed_ to be looking for ways to get to Nygma, not caught up in trying to win a simple chess match. It was _never_ simple, _could_ never be simple, and he would have to remember that if he wanted to survive. 

He shifted around, dancing back to the opposite end of the board. Move after move, Nygma chased him, bound to the timid movements of the king piece, as Bruce baited him into cornering himself. 

"Pawn takes f6." Bruce called, finally drawing Nygma into his bishop's territory, no need to move to keep himself safe. "Only the two pawns left, Riddler. Resign. You have no way of winning." 

"That's what _you_ think!" Nygma snapped. "Never count your chickens before they hatch! You've heard that one, I assume?"

The swirled head of the cane tilted back, revealing a button. With a firm, gloved thumb, Nygma depressed the switch, watching triumphantly as one of the pawns began to pick up speed, closing in on Bruce's location. 

_Ah. That's_ what the electromagnetism was for. 

Bruce flipped out of the way as the other pawn shot forward, prevented from leaving the magnetised board entirely by a repelling force at the far edge, as though being hurtled around by magic. 

"I won't let you underestimate me, you hear?! You'll meet your demise today, I swear it!" 

The pawns criss-crossed across the board with wild abandon, nearly striking with debilitating force with every pass. 

Bruce's own pieces remained in place. 

"Bishop to c6!" Bruce called, flipping in-between the piece and its new destination. 

As expected, the board recognized the obstruction, sliding down like a tiny elevator to drop the knight below the board, and Bruce rolled off the platform before it returned to board level. 

_Bingo._

The network of wires below here was an absolute _mess,_ thrown together by someone with absolutely no tendency toward organization or neatness. How could a man so _meticulous_ build something so _messy?!_

Some of this wiring must be powering the electrical impulses for explosives, and some of it must be controlling the switches for the electrical magnets. Cutting the wrong ones would leave live wires loose in a tight space, increasing the danger tenfold. 

Cutting the right ones would remove Nygma's defenses and allow Bruce to finally reach the irritating villain. 

Distorted through the overhead speakers and muffled through the mechanical chessboard, Nygma's voice was indecipherable, though the man continued to rant and rave. _Quickly, quickly, before he does something desperate and reckless…_

Bruce slipped another batarang from his belt, cutting cleanly through a handful of wires near where the white king had begun. One sparked and sputtered as it went, startling him into dropping the blade, but things went quiet up above. 

He kicked, with as much of his weight as he could put behind it, at the tile above him. The panel smashed, the purple lightbulb within sparking, shards of plastic sheeting cascading down around him. 

"No! No! What the hell do you think you're _doing?!_ You can't _do_ that, you haven't _won-"_

"Shut up, Nygma. You said you'd go willingly when I won, right? You resigned, so I win." 

"Like hell!" The predictable response came.

The Riddler crawled from his translucent cage, toppled to its side when the magnets cut off, desperately scrambling for some distance. 

Bruce put a heavy boot between his shoulder blades. 

"Not this time, Riddler." 

The man stiffened, the fight suddenly replaced with a frozen tension. Taking the opportunity, Bruce snatched both wrists, zipping them tightly together with the ties, restraining him for the time being. 

"I'll get my revenge, I swear it." The Riddler snarled, but there was no heat behind it, not like before. Beneath Bruce's fingers, the pulse in his wrist jumped, stuttering and racing. Despite the forced expression of fury, the man was _terrified._

"You'll have to wait until you've done your time." Bruce responded, flatly, and the pulse began to calm. "Let's go. Lucky you, the Batmobile just got a full detailing. You wouldn't _believe_ what that thing's been through." 

Nygma didn't grace him with a response to that, sending him a silent pout in return, but he'd relaxed significantly. 

_He sort of... fell apart, after he was brought in. He had to be under 24-hour watch, make sure he was taking care of himself and all. 'No-strings' watch, if you know what I mean._

Maybe he shouldn't have pressed Dr. Quinzel for the details. If he hadn't, he wouldn't be dealing with the niggling of guilt eating at his gut, telling him to be gentle with a man who had, just moments before, tried to _kill_ him. 

Alfred had always warned him his bleeding heart would be his downfall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall should know im a super nerd so im gonna give yall some behind the scenes-  
> the chess game eddie and bruce play is the same one bruce is memorizing in chapter one!  
> at the point when i diverged, i played against alice several times until we got a game that played out the way i wanted for the fic  
> i also wrote every riddle in this fic except for the pawns one and i complained the whole time  
> EDIT: drew chapter art of eddie in the king piece  
> https://jovialjuggernaut-draws.tumblr.com/post/643752298850467840/death-chess-as-courtship-from-the-most-recent


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was really, really intending to ease into the joker/harley, i really was  
> but i hc her as having bpd and she really did just decide shed die for this man within an hour of knowing him so fuck that i guess OTL

The moment he was able to stand under his own power again, Bruce scheduled another visit to Arkham Asylum. Despite the major breakout so soon after opening, multiple new inmates had been sent their way, including the very reason he'd been bedbound for the last several days. It was unlikely they'd been any more prepared for something like Poison Ivy than he had. 

As expected, it was Dr. Quinzel who greeted him at the entrance, with an  _ un _ expected bounce in her step. "Welcome back, Mr. Wayne! I was warned you'd be by again! What'll it be first?" 

She consulted the same little clipboard as before, the notes somewhat less organized than before, with far more corrections and squeezed notes between. The doodles were also more prolific, mostly of smiley faces and cutesy cartoon clowns. 

"How about we start with that tour again," he suggested. 

"Sure thing! Just remember, when I say something's off-limits, I  _ mean  _ it, mister!" She smiled at him, much less severe than he remembered her. 

"You sure seem upbeat. I'd think you all would be pretty overwhelmed right now," he noted. 

"Oh, do I? I didn't realize." She shrugged, leading the way he recalled from his previous visit. "Yeah, it's been pretty hectic, but I've always worked well under pressure."

Past a security door, unlocked by her nametag, lay the observation window, looking out over the sprawling campus. It was lovely, as before, manicured gardens and lawns between each building, broken up by the presence of construction machinery and materials, idling at the present while the workers broke for lunch. 

"Besides..." Dr. Quinzel continued, leaning against the windowsill, watching the fountain burble wistfully. "I'm learning a lot from my patients, you know? Folks think they're all lost causes, but I think they've just got different worldviews, and we just have to learn to speak their language to get through to them." 

Bruce hummed, unconvinced. "Those 'different worldviews' of theirs led them to lives of crime and destruction," he pointed out. 

The psychiatrist's jaw clenched, her posture stiffening. "Just because our society has failed them, that doesn't mean their ideas aren't worth listening to. There's no disorder that  _ makes  _ you do bad things. They're  _ vulnerable,  _ Mr. Wayne. They've been traumatized and abused and they need our patience and our understanding." 

Bruce shifted uncomfortably at her intensity. "You feel pretty strongly about this." 

"Of course I do. It's why I pursued this line of work. I didn't get my doctorate just for fun, you know." She sighed, shaking her head just enough to send the low pigtails sweeping across her shoulder blades. "I thought that you felt the same way. Why else would you fund a place like this?" 

_ To fix them,  _ his immediate thought said.  _ To make sure they never hurt another person again.  _

But that wasn't all, was it? If he simply wanted to stop them, he would never have implemented his most binding rule. His parents' murderer would never hurt anyone ever again, and by that logic, he'd been  _ right  _ to do what he'd done. 

The ever-present guilt clawing into his gut spoke to the contrary. 

No, the Asylum project was about  _ redemption,  _ about proving that second chances were  _ worth it.  _ Anyone could be saved, even the most dangerous, the most deadly, the most unrepentant. 

_ Even the Batman.  _

Was she right, then? Was there something worth learning, worth listening to, worth  _ salvaging?  _

_ They're vulnerable, Mr. Wayne. They've been traumatized and abused and they need our patience and our understanding.  _

He recalled the Scarecrow, so calm and collected, until he'd laid a hand on him, the way the man had panicked the moment he'd been restrained, lashing out in a way wholly contrary to his previous demeanor. Had the reaction been more than the fear of being caught?

He thought of Nygma, of the way he'd deflated after he'd raised his voice. He thought of the way he'd frozen, all the fight gone out of him in an instant, when he'd been pinned. He remembered, again, what Dr. Quinzel had told him regarding his stay in Blackgate. 

Even the Joker, a man with no memory, no  _ past...  _ Were any of them different, fundamentally, from Bruce himself? 

"I... suppose you have a point, doctor," he finally replied, the silence having continued for longer than was strictly polite. "I'm just concerned that they might have more of an influence on you than you'll have on them." 

"Don't you worry about me, Mr. Wayne. I'm a trained professional, remember?" She straightened, stepping away from the windowsill, and adjusted her labcoat. "Let's get back to it, shall we? I wanted to show you the botanical gardens, now that we've got them opened up finally, and I've cut into your time enough with this." 

\---

It had been an easy thing, to catch Dr. Quinzel distracted. Her focus was far from the present, judging by her constant chatter about 'J'. 

_ "We have to call our patients by their names, you see, instead of the titles the media gave them. Puts the focus on the person instead of their crimes, right? But J, that's Joker, he doesn't have any other name, doesn't remember it. He was assigned 'John Doe', so we had something to put in there, but it doesn't feel right calling him 'John', you know? It's not a name that means anything to him. So, I figure, what's the harm in a nickname that fits both, right?"  _

Bruce simply waited for her to turn away, her focus now on the display of the patients' art therapy projects, chattering away about 'J's sculpture and the deeper meaning she saw in it, for his chance to slip away momentarily, discreetly placing a tiny machine among the wiring of the nearest computer terminal. With luck, it would successfully transmit the data from the internal network here all the way back to the cave's computers, giving him access to those hiring records he had yet to look into. 

Dr. Quinzel was perfectly oblivious when he returned, reaching the tail end of her monologue with embarrassment. "Oh, but listen to me ramble on! You wanted to check in with the patients, right? I can grab Eddie for you again." There was something almost...  _ conspiratorial  _ in her eyes. "He's been asking after you, you know. Ever since he was brought back." 

Bruce tried not to wince. It wasn't that he was necessarily  _ opposed  _ to dealing with the Riddler, but... "Actually, I was kind of curious about your newer inmates. They've been big news, after all." 

"The new patients, huh? Hmm... I don't think it'd be a good idea to let you talk to Jonathan, considering he's..." She seemed to struggle for the word for a moment, tapping at her clipboard with a green gel pen. "Well, let's just say I don't think he'd be particularly cooperative. I could grab you Pamela, though! I think she'd be interested in a chance to speak with a big wig like you." 

She was willing to bring Poison Ivy out of whatever cell they'd managed to trap her in? They'd have to cross at least part of the lush campus to bring her over here, possibly even crossing near those botanical gardens, giving her ample access to her source of power. "Are you sure that's safe?" 

Dr. Quinzel nodded. "We've got a protocol in place for dampening her abilities, and Dr. Strange has full confidence that it'll work as expected. I  _ will _ have you come with me to the other visiting area, though." She gestured over to that door he'd been barred from entering the last time, inviting him to join her as she crossed through it. Another swipe of her nametag and the electronic lock disengaged. "It's just through this door here." 

Down the hall was a gate of iron bars, blocking further passage, the spackling around each one still pristine and white. To their right, though, was a door marked 'Secure Visitation', with a keypad for the entry key. Without quite meaning to, Bruce committed the code to memory, a habit that had come in useful too many times to excise completely. 

She left him there, the room a stark contrast from the rest of the brightly-lit, airy facility, with its concrete structure and thick glass barrier. He tested the density with a few quick taps of his knuckles, searching for weaknesses in the structure. It was durable, sure, up to code for your average prisoner, but Poison Ivy was anything but average. 

Strange had  _ full confidence?  _ Bruce had heard the man speak that way, in their earlier meetings, but had attributed it to a man making his pitch for an investor's money, not coming from a place of absolute  _ hubris.  _ What methods could he  _ possibly  _ be applying on such short notice to give him  _ full confidence?  _

Soon enough, the door on the other half of the room opened, Poison Ivy flanked by an armed guard on each elbow, her neck and wrists bound by some sort of heavy shackles, similar to the kind developed to restrain Venom users like Bane and his crew. The guards allowed her to take a seat, and retreated to stand by near the door. 

"Well?" Poison Ivy drawled. "Aren't you going to sit? Mighty rude to hover over a lady like that." 

Bruce tentatively took the seat before her. Even with the barrier between them, he remained on-edge. 

It had been a powerful poison she'd hit him with, after all, and he'd brushed far too closely with death for his comfort. 

"Dr. Isley, isn't it? You're looking well." 

She scoffed. The pleasantry was quite an exaggeration. Her skin was still mottled with patches of sickly green fighting for territory with healthier flesh tones, the way he remembered it at the denouement of their encounter. Her vibrant, red hair was stringy and limp, held back from her face in a loosely-tied ponytail, greasy, like they were afraid letting her shower would make her more powerful.  _ She's a woman, not a plant...  _ The heavy shackles appeared to be quite the burden on her, as well, her almost supernatural abilities not including an element of inhuman strength. 

All in all, she wasn't the same woman he'd met only months before, confidently giving the presentation for her department on their research. If this was what they considered proper treatment...  _ No wonder Nygma was so desperate to break out.  _

"I didn't mean any disrespect, Dr. Isley," he apologized. "I'd heard it was the Batman who apprehended you. I'm just surprised you're uninjured." He could be... aggressive, in his approach. He certainly remembered landing several blows that  _ should  _ have bruised, but none of the discolored patches bore the right pattern for bruising. 

"That's because it wasn't the  _ Batman _ who brought me down." Her tone was dry, almost snarky. "I brought  _ myself _ to that point. I misjudged my new power. The  _ Batman _ merely helped speed the process along." 

"Then... I'm glad you weren't hurt. I understand it was the project you were doing for our biotech division that caused your..." He gestured vaguely in her direction, earning himself an unamused curl of her lip. "The accident." 

"Yes, the project you denied additional funding for. Thanks for that, by the way. Not having the additional help around the lab definitely made it a safer environment." 

He winced. He stood by his decision, especially seeing what had happened to Dr. Isley, but it was hard to say that to the victim of a workplace accident, wasn't it? "If you have any medical expenses, please, don't hesitate to reach out. I'm more than willing to put pressure on HR to cover-" 

"No need, Mr. Wayne. I've never  _ been  _ healthier. Besides... I doubt any physician on earth could treat me as I am now." There was no sarcasm in her tone, as there had been before. Her posture was proud, even with the manacles weighing her down, embracing what she had become. 

Dr. Quinzel interrupted gently, clearing her throat to attract attention. "Mr. Wayne, why don't you tell Pamela why you're here?" 

"Uh, right." To business, then. "Dr. Isley, I was hoping to get your perspective as a new patient." 

Poison Ivy rolled her eyes at the word. 

Bruce pressed on, regardless. "I've been trying to improve things around here, as best I can. It's important to me that this facility serves its actual purpose." 

She narrowed her eyes. "You're asking a  _ prisoner  _ for help securing her  _ prison?"  _

"I'm asking a  _ patient  _ for her opinion on her  _ treatment," _ Bruce clarified. 

Ivy huffed. 

"But, yes, security is part of that. I'm sure it's difficult to keep up a treatment plan when the treatment keeps getting... interrupted." 

Dr. Quinzel nodded, her expressive face conveying something along the lines of 'you can say  _ that  _ again'. 

Poison Ivy sat forward, sizing him up. "What do I get out of this? Whatever I tell you, you're going to use to make sure I'm stuck here, right? So, what do I get in return?" 

"Oh, I'm sure there's something I could do for you. I've got my position and influence, after all. What is it you would want?" 

"Freedom, obviously," she drawled, slowly, like he was a particularly slow toddler. 

"Short of that." He glanced over at Dr. Quinzel. She was doing something with her eyebrows, trying to convey some sort of hidden message, but he was not receiving it, whatever it was. "I could see about some sort of appeal or parole, when the time comes, but the courts have already reached a decision, for the time being." 

Dr. Quinzel gave up on her silent messaging, rolling her eyes. "Pamela, why don't you tell him what you told me?" 

"About the green initiatives?" Poison Ivy seemed confused, turning to stare incredulously at her psychiatrist. 

Dr. Quinzel nodded enthusiastically. 

"Oh, please. The day Wayne Enterprises goes green is the day Nygma takes a vow of silence," Ivy snarked bitterly. 

"What's this about?" Bruce interrupted, glancing between the two women. 

At Dr. Quinzel's encouraging nod, Ivy hesitantly turned back to Bruce. "I brought it up at every level of management I could, and was shut down every time, but..." 

"You don't get much higher than me," he pointed out. 

"That's what I'm worried about." A lock of hair fell loose as she shook her head, and she moved to fix it, forgetting, for a moment, about the heavy manacles around her wrists. The thick metal  _ thump _ ed heavily against the table between them, echoing strangely through the barrier. "Wayne Enterprises and its subsidiaries produce the overwhelming majority of pollutants in the area. Despite new technologies and new regulations, many of the processes employed by various departments have yet to be updated, choosing, instead, to simply pay off the mounting fines, rather than to invest in a cleaner future." 

The speech was measured, practiced. Her tone and pacing had all shifted, giving an elevator pitch she'd delivered dozens of times. It seemed she wasn't at all exaggerating about taking this to every level of management. Why had this never made its way to Bruce's desk? 

"What I want from you, Mr. Wayne, is a commitment. A commitment to meeting and exceeding regulations, a commitment to repairing the damage already done, a commitment to a cleaner, safer Gotham." Her rehearsed speech concluded, she slumped back in her chair, glaring through her messy hair at him. "If you can promise me that, I'll tell you whatever it is you want to know." 

"Of course. I swear it." It would take some time, of course, time he didn't necessarily  _ have _ , but he could delegate. 

"Too easy." She squinted suspiciously. "If it was that simple, it would have been done already." 

He shrugged. "My uncle left quite a few decisions behind that I'm reaping the consequences of, now that I've taken his place. I wasn't aware of this issue before, but I assure you, it's not something I agree with." 

"It'll impact your bottom line, take money out of those oh-so-important profit margins. All your executives claimed that was a dealbreaker." 

"So I won't be able to refurbish my yacht quarterly," Bruce joked, "So what?" 

Ivy sat straighter, looking him over like she was sizing him up again. "You're... not quite what I expected." 

"That sounds like a compliment, coming from you." 

"It was meant to be one." She chewed her lip, thinking. Her emerald eyes flashed back to Dr. Quinzel once more. "Alright. Prove to me something's getting done, and I'll tell you what you want to know." 

So, she wouldn't budge yet.  _ That's fine.  _ "Then, I look forward to our next meeting. Until then." 

She nodded, allowing the two guards to take her by the elbows and lead her away again. Dr. Quinzel remained behind. 

"I'm  _ so  _ sorry," she apologized in a rush as soon as they were gone. "It absolutely slipped my mind that she used to work for you. It's even here, in my notes, and I-" She flipped through the pages on her clipboard, bringing up one primarily written in green, Dr. Isley's name penned neatly at the top, "-I should have remembered that might be a point of contention. I'm really so, so sorry-" 

"Dr. Quinzel, it's fine, really," Bruce insisted. "Thank you for your help. I'm actually very glad I got to speak with her. She brought up very important points." 

She breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh, good. Um..." The tapping of the pen started up again. "She didn't tell you much of anything, though, did she? I don't want you to have wasted your time..." 

The pen wiggled between her fingers, shaking quickly enough to blur. With the other hand, she fiddled with the papers on her clipboard, almost flipping to a certain page before deciding against it, over and over. In the bare glimpses the quick movements allowed him, he tried to piece together who the page belonged to. 

"Mr. Nygma... He spearheaded the breakout, didn't he?" She'd brought him up earlier, and seemed put-out that Bruce hadn't agreed to speak with him. "I imagine that landed him in hot water." 

"Oh." Her fidgeting stopped abruptly. "Yes, yes, he did. He's been under stricter watch and barred from group activities for the time being. I only barely managed to keep him out of solitary, and that, I think, was mostly because he already managed to bust J out of there last time." 

"But I'd still be allowed to speak with him?" He confirmed.

"Well, sure! That is, I mean, if you  _ wanted  _ to. He hasn't been disallowed visitors." She hesitated. "Although... we should probably stick to this room, now that I think about it." 

"Probably wise," Bruce agreed. 

"So... that's a yes, yes? You want me to grab him?" 

He wasn't sure how he could be much clearer, but she didn't move until he nodded. She perked up immediately when he did, though, her low pigtails bobbing with the movement of her bouncy steps. 

"I'll be right back!" She assured him. 

Something was... very  _ odd _ about the way this place was being run.  _ Strange _ , even, though the pun was a bit on-the-nose. So many little things, things that had looked like minor oversights or genuine limitations before, had begun to add up to something bigger, something deliberate. It was only a hunch, for now, and Bruce had yet to grasp the possible goal of all this, but there was merit in trusting one's gut instincts. 

After all, 'gut instincts' were simply the name given to informed judgements by the pattern-making processes of the brain, quicker than conscious thought could be applied. He'd get to the bottom of this, one way or another. 

"In here today, Eddie." Dr. Quinzel's voice chirped, distorted through the barrier. 

"Oh, Harleen, don't you trust me? This is  _ hardly  _ necessary." Nygma's voice followed, a mischievous lilt to the tone. He caught Bruce's eye through the glass, sending a conspiratorial wink over Dr. Quinzel's head. 

She tilted her chin up, looking down her nose at him as best she could, despite her petite stature. "Better safe than sorry with someone like you." Belying her accusatory tone, a smile tugged at her lips. 

Nygma sighed, dramatically, sliding into the same chair Poison Ivy had recently vacated. "Oh, well. Worth a shot."

"Mr. Nygma," Bruce greeted as the man settled in, taking up the space as though he owned it, sprawling and relaxed. "It's good to see you again. Been getting into trouble, I hear." 

He seemed tickled by the understatement. "That's not wholly inaccurate." 

"The food's that bad, huh?" 

Nygma answered with a laugh that was a bit too enthusiastic for the lameness of the joke, in Bruce's opinion. "The food might be bad enough to chase the rats away, but no. I had a certain...  _ theory _ that I wanted to test." 

"Oh? What kind of theory?" 

There was a significant pause, and Bruce knew exactly what was coming before Nygma could utter the first word of the riddle. "Though you carry me everywhere you go, I do not get heavy. Though I may belong to you, others use me more. What am I?" 

Bruce sighed. "Must you?" 

Nygma simply continued grinning, pleased with himself. "Hey, diddle diddle," he teased, sing-song. 

Bruce sat back, furrowing his brow.  _ Carry me everywhere, do not get heavy, others use me more...  _ "A name? Whose name?" 

There was another heavy pause, Nygma carefully appraising him, and Bruce braced himself for another riddle that did not come. "That's not important. What's important is that I was  _ right."  _

_ What had Nygma been up to?  _ "And that was worth all the trouble?"    
" _ Well  _ worth it, I assure you. Not that it was all that  _ difficult  _ to break out of here, mind you," he gloated. 

"Oh, really? That easy, huh?" It was never difficult, baiting the man into bragging. 

The expected smug grin spread across his face. "I have a mouth, but cannot speak. I have a bed, but cannot sleep." 

"A river." A classic, that one. 

"It runs right through the campus, have you seen it?" 

He had. Through the observation window Dr. Quinzel took him to, there was a clear view of it, high banks, thick foliage, and all, burbling its way through the courtyard. "You can't be telling me you took the river out of here." 

"Not quite. Consider, if you would, the particulars of having a river on such a small island. Where's the water coming from, and where's it going?" 

_ Where was he going with this?  _ "The harbor and the harbor, I have to imagine." 

Nygma rolled his eyes. "I beg you to  _ think,  _ Mr. Wayne. I was laboring under the impression that you were an intelligent man." 

Bruce felt his lip twitch. Ah, there was the familiar irritation the Riddler usually inspired. "I apologize for being under-educated on the particulars of bodies of water." 

"This is really less an issue of trivia and more of common sense! If it were so simple, the island would have been carved in half ages ago! At the very least, the river would  _ begin  _ at the island's perimeter, but it doesn't, does it? It starts out near the old manor and disappears beneath this building here." 

He didn't follow. "So... what? The building's foundation is shaky?" 

Nygma groaned, frustrated. "No, you imbecile!" 

The guard that had followed them in cleared his throat, giving him a stern look. Nygma slowly sank back into his chair. 

"The area where Wayne Manor is built... it lies over a network of caverns, yes?" He began again, more level-headed. 

Another non-sequitur.  _ Was this really worth the trouble? _ "Yes." 

Nygma regarded him with a long, judgemental look. "So, you would be  _ familiar  _ with the concept, I would hope." 

There was a connection there, one that made sense to him, one that seemed  _ obvious _ to him. Familiar with the concept... the concept of caverns? "So, you're saying... the Asylum is also built over caverns? The water flows through them, coming out for a ways, before returning underground." 

"Yes! Precisely!" He cheered, jubilant. "A series of interconnecting caves, spanning the length of island. The place is absolutely  _ riddled  _ with them. There are no maps cataloguing them all, no cameras or gates or guard patrols. It was so  _ easy,  _ so  _ simple!"  _

"Not to mention incredibly dangerous," Bruce chastised. "If there's one thing I know from growing up near caves, it's that you  _ never  _ go spelunking without a guide." 

"Well worth the risk, Mr. Wayne, well worth the risk. After all, the whole thing was a rousing success!" 

Bruce glanced over to the guard, who didn't seem particularly surprised by these revelations. "I'm surprised you're telling me all this where those two can hear. Don't want to keep the same avenue open for next time?" 

Nygma hummed noncommittally, following his gaze. "Oh, them. I'm not too worried about it, considering they're already well aware. There was a full investigation, naturally, and they were able to piece together what had happened.  _ I'm  _ certainly not getting anywhere near the caverns again, that's for sure. Besides... what fun is there in rehashing the same plan over and over again?" 

"So, this was about fun, was it? I thought it was about proving yourself right?" 

"Multiple birds, singular stone, and all that. Speaking of which..." Nygma sat forward, leaning as far as the barrier would allow. "You didn't just come here to interrogate me about my escape, did you?"

Bruce cleared his throat, shifting until the plastic chair was more comfortable. "Not entirely, no. I primarily came here to follow up on our conversation from last time, make sure your concerns were addressed."

Nygma snorted, incredulous. "What, you mean your health inspector? They had plenty of warning to get everything in order and practically served him a five-star meal." 

Ah. He'd been worried that might be the case. "Not only that, though I apologize there's not much more I can do on that front. The rest of it, I mean. I imagine all the chaos after your stunt set them back a bit, but something must have gotten done, by now. Have they managed to move you and the others out of the panopticon yet?" 

Nygma rolled his eyes. "Of course not." 

_ Of course not? _ "What do you mean?" 

There was a long pause, Nygma watching him seriously, brow furrowed with confusion. Bruce was sure his own expression was a perfect mirror of it. "You're serious?" 

"Yes, genuinely. Dr. Strange assured me it could be done. He gave me an estimate and I cleared the funds. I'd assumed progress could be made on other areas of the facility." 

This seemed to surprise and then infuriate him. " _ Strange.  _ I should have guessed," Nygma spat. "You know, Mr. Wayne, if you really wanted to help out, you would get  _ rid  _ of that man." 

So, Nygma had noticed something off about Strange, as well. "I'll keep that in mind." 

Dr. Quinzel cleared her throat, drawing attention to herself. "That's all the time we have, Mr. Wayne, visiting hours are up. Sorry, but I gotta get Eddie back to his room." 

Bruce checked his watch. Two o'clock on the dot. Dr. Quinzel must have been watching the time closely, then. "A pity. Until next time then, Mr. Nygma." 

"If I'm still here," Nygma replied airily. The guard shot a glare his way. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding!"

The door slammed shut firmly behind them, a soft humming following behind as the electronic lock engaged. 

_ A cavern system no one had known about, a recent escapee allowed visitors, Nygma finding it ludicrous to expect the prisoners to be moved...  _ Whatever was brewing here, it was quickly rising in urgency. 

It was time to seek out an ally.

\---

Another dead end. 

Somehow, the hotheaded, bumbling beat cops had managed to fuck over the investigation even  _ worse  _ than the ones actually paid for by Maroni, and now Harvey couldn't scrape together two scraps of damning evidence. The court date would arrive, the enforcer would walk free, and he wouldn't have made a  _ lick  _ of progress, despite so many sleepless nights since taking this office. 

A frustration that wasn't his own bubbled to the surface, and he shook his head sharply, sending an emphatic  _ no  _ to the alter. 

It had been... a bad day. One stress after another had surfaced, riling up one of his protectors. Struggling to stay at the front all day was wearing him out, leaving him disassociating for more time than not. His aide had suggested, more than once, that he go home, but this case was too important, his new position too critical, to abandon for something like this. He would have these days, would  _ always  _ have these days, days where consciousness was a battle, and he just needed... just needed to...

There was a cold wind blowing in from the window. 

What had he been thinking about? 

Harvey shuffled through the papers on his desk, trying to reconnect his train of thought. The report from Officer Bullock was at the top of the stack. Despite the long hours that had gone into the planning of the raid, the man had dragged Montoya along with him to the site, going in, guns blazing, and sending the entire operation scattering. 

Bullock still claimed he was in the right, claimed the raid would have been compromised, anyway, so it had been worth the risk, even if it hadn't paid off. 

Harvey had to disagree. None of the evidence they found could hold up, not since they were off-duty and working against orders. The Maronis' lawyers would claim they'd gone rogue, planting evidence and stirring trouble. 

They hadn't even gotten any  _ names _ . 

"I need to speak with you." 

A spike of adrenaline shot up his spine at the sudden intrusion, his hand immediately slipping into the drawer of his desk for his pistol. 

"And what, exactly, have I done to earn a visit from the infamous Batman?" Harvey asked, slowly retracting his hand once more, the pistol unmoved from its usual place. 

The shadowed figure stepping around the desk didn't exactly put him at ease, but it did abate the initial terror. He put a hand to his heart, forcing himself to calm down. 

"It's about Arkham Asylum." The voice, distorted and deepened by some kind of modulator, betrayed no emotion. 

"Why me? I don't have anything to do with that place."  _ He knows,  _ the alter thought. _ You're jumping to conclusions,  _ Harvey argued. "Why don't you go interrogate that Falcone flunky, Wayne? It's his project, isn't it?" 

The neutral line to the Batman's mouth twitched into a grimace momentarily, before settling back in. "You've been the persecutor every time someone's been sentenced there." 

"A coincidence. I was made DA around the same time as the place opened. Am I being accused of something?" The defensiveness wasn't fully his own. He needed to calm down before they switched. The  _ last  _ thing he needed was the notorious vigilante getting wind of his illness.  _ It'd just figure, wouldn't it? _

"No." 

"No? Then what are you getting at?" 

There was a disconcerting pause, the Batman merely staring him down for a long moment. "Did a Dr. Strange speak at any of their trials?" 

The name was more than a little familiar. "All of them, yes. He's the Head of Psychiatry there, isn't he?" 

"Yes. He argued for them to be sent to his facility?" 

"Well, yes. What else would he be there for?" 

"He argued this despite the almost immediate breakout?" 

Harvey nodded. "I brought that up as an argument, and he accused me of trying to 'undermine the progress he was making with the face of mental health care in Gotham'. Ridiculous." 

"Hmm." Another long pause.  _ What was he thinking, under that mask?  _ "I have reason to believe Strange has some broader plan, some... ulterior motive." 

"And you brought this to me... why? You just said you weren't accusing me of anything." 

"I was hoping to get your help. There are avenues of investigation you can pursue that I can't." 

"What, you haven't found the right arms to break, this time?" Harvey snarked. 

The steady glow of the cowl's blank eyes revealed nothing. 

He sighed, ruffling his hair and looking down at the mess on his desk. "Listen. I  _ can't  _ right now. I'm in over my head already trying to root out the mob activity in the city. Until the problems at that place interfere with this, I can't split my attention. There are bigger threats to the city than a couple of kooks in costumes, no offense." 

"A pity. I would think this issue would interest you." 

_ He knows!  _ The alter repeated, more emphatically, and that was the last thing Harvey remembered. 

.

.

.

The hands on the clock had jumped forward. 

The Batman was gone. 

Harvey ran a hand through his hair. "What did you do...?" 

He dug through the drawer, nudging aside the pistol for the pad of sticky notes trapped beneath it. Clicking open the nearest pen, he scribbled out a note. 

_ I need to know what happened tonight. -Harvey _

He scribbled the date at the top, then pulled the note off the pad, securing it to the edge of his computer's monitor. Hopefully, it was vague enough that his aide wouldn't ask questions, while still being clear enough to serve its purpose. 

_ Okay, you win. Let's go get some sleep,  _ Harvey conceded, tugging his jacket from the chair. 

Somewhere in his internal world, a protective alter was feeling very smug. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone who actually has (or personally knows someone who has) DID notices something glaringly wrong with how im writing harvey, let me know!! im doing my best to research the realities of identity disorders, but its not something ive personally experienced!  
> that being said, if u notice something wrong with the lawyering side of things, i dont want to know, i dont care 💖 my familiarity with criminal law is shaky at best and i intend to keep it that way 💖


End file.
